


The Gods Flip a Coin

by HeavyShoegaze



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar never married Elia, Canon Divergence - Tourney at Harrenhal, F/M, M/M, Rhaegar rebels against his father, Self-Indulgent, Starts off slow, Tourney at Harrenhal, Year of the False Spring, star-crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-08-05 19:24:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16373573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavyShoegaze/pseuds/HeavyShoegaze
Summary: 281 years after Aegon's Conquest, the King is mad, the Crown Prince is defiant, and the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros tilt on the edge of violence. The fate of the Realm rests on a hundred actions large and small and on the men and women who play the Great Game.Alternatively,"Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it."A Dance With Dragons - The Kingbreaker





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> "King Jaehaerys once told me that madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, he said, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land." (Ser Barristan Selmy)
> 
> A Storm of Swords - Daenerys VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Change of Plans

 

The great towers of Harrenhal rose up over the tree line, majestic pillars that seemed to split the clouds and hold up the very sky itself. Visible even from several miles away, the figures of Harren the Black’s black stone walls cut harsh lines up from the fluttering green leaves and through the fluid blue sea of the late afternoon. It was truly the grandest castle in Westeros, greater in size than the Red Keep, Dragonstone, Sunspear, and even Arthur’s home of Starfall put together. Even the clouds seemed to break around the twisted tops. Arthur noticed that the sun had perched itself at the top of the highest of the melted, warped tower tops like Balerion the Black Dread had once done during Aegon’s Conquest, surveying its charred, melted hoard.

“Quite the sight, is it not,” a soft voice, warm and melodious, sang quietly, interrupting Arthur’s thoughts. Rhaegar Targaryen, the Crown Prince of Dragonstone, pulled his black mare over to a trot alongside Arthur’s. “Would you say this is the tallest castle in Westeros, Arthur? I am certain that it puts Dragonstone and the Red Keep to shame. Gerold says the Chamber of the Great Flame in the Hightower in Oldtown holds the dubious title of the highest point in the Realm, but I think he may be just the touch biased.” He flashed Arthur a blinding smile, showing off perfect white teeth and smooth lips curving upwards and…

Arthur forced those thoughts out of his head, gritting his teeth as he forced his eyes to look back down the road. Rhaegar paused for a second before continuing. “I know Skyreach and the Eyrie are supposed to be so tall they brush the clouds, and your uncle’s new keep in the mountains certainly sounds impressive, but Harrenhal?” he gestured with one hand at the castle in the distance. “What can compare to _that_? By the Seven, it must be as tall as the Wall, though I must confess an ignorance of the North and their…” he paused again, searching for the right word. “…landmarks,” he finished diplomatically – most below the Neck might’ve elected to use a different phrase to describe the oldest of the Seven Kingdoms and the strange people who called the desolate, dreary lands home. “Perhaps I should tour the North after I win this tourney?” Rhaegar gave Arthur a cheeky smirk, but Arthur didn’t take the bait.

 _Perhaps Your Grace can take your wife to the North after the wedding,_ Arthur thought sarcastically, though all he did was nod curtly, his visage betraying nothing but stoicism. He kept his face forwards like was expected of a Sworn Knight of the King’s Guard and hoped that his eyes didn’t show the hurt in his heart – Ashara always did say his eyes were windows into his soul. Arthur was very good at keeping up appearances, and heartache wouldn’t change that anytime soon. He chanced a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw Rhaegar frown at the impersonal formality, pursing his lips. Arthur did his best not to linger on any part of Rhaegar’s face – what had once transpired between them, lost nights under shared covers and stolen moments in shadowed corners, it was in the past. It had to be in the past, for both Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Arthur Dayne were men with the ever-heavy weight of their duty on their shoulders and, well, everyone knew what was said of _love_ and _duty_.

A stray silver curl, long and shining, escaped from its careful tie and swept across Rhaegar’s face, and the silver prince paused for a moment, waiting to see if Arthur would do anything. Arthur knew from years of experience that the lock of hair would be soft as silk to the touch should he tuck it back behind Rhaegar’s ear – the Prince of Dragonstone was ever so fond of his appearance, much to Arthur’s amusement. The close bond between the Dragon Prince and the Sword of the Morning was famous across King’s Landing, and many had remarked that Rhaegar and Arthur were so close both in looks and in friendship that one could be forgiven for assuming that they shared more than just the distant blood of Dyanna Dayne. Even still, Arthur thought as he inadvertently made eye contact with Rhaegar, the gestures and intimacy Rhaegar sought crossed the threshold into something _more_.

“As much as I do enjoy the sound of my own voice, I was under the assumption that we were in the midst of a conversation. Have I caused you some manner of offense, Arthur?” Rhaegar asked coolly, his beautiful, aristocratic features curling into the frustrated exasperation he most certainly must have felt. There were a hundred ways that Arthur could respond, a hundred ways that he wanted to say _yes, you wronged me. You loved me, I loved you, and then you agreed to marry another_ , but he just looked down at the brown leather reins of his horse gripped inside perfectly engraved silver gauntlets. Rhaegar made to say something more, but he was cut off by the sound of hooves clopping against the stone road as the rest of the party caught up to them. Even still, the sharp look he sent towards Arthur brokered no disagreement – they _would_ speak of this further.

Jon Connington, the Lord of Griffin’s Roost, shifted in his red-and-white doublet, absentmindedly picking at the seams of the two colors where the stitching had begun to break. He ran a hand through his bright red hair as his conversation with Ser Monford Velaryon paused so that the son of the Master of Driftmark could give his squire, his half-brother Aurane Waters, another lecture on keeping his pony in hand. Arthur smiled despite himself, remembering when Monford himself was a squire trying to keep up with the rest of them.

“Now keep your mount in line, Aurane,” Monford instructed, keeping his voice stern as Arthur, Rhaegar, and Jon looked on in amusement. “You’re drifting to the sides. Keep straight else I’ll find you veering into a ditch somewhere off the road.”

“I know how to ride a pony, Monford,” The younger son of Lucerys Velaryon grumbled. “You only say otherwise so your friends will think you actually teach me things.” Monford shook his head in exasperation, looking at Arthur for sympathy, as if to say _we couldn’t have been this annoying as squires, could we?_

“I teach you many things!” Monford protested.

“ _Many things_?” Aurane asked incredulously. “You don’t even let me carry a sword! Corlys and Jace would!” he protested, referring to Lord Lucerys's two other trueborn sons - Monford's elder brothers.

“Perhaps when you grow up I may decide you’re mature enough for a weapon of your own,” Monford sharply rebuked him.

“But Monford…” Aurane whined.

“When you attend to a knight, you should always refer to him as _Ser_ , lad,” Jon interrupted gruffly. Ever the stickler for propriety, the young griffin gave both Monford and Aurane a disapproving look.

“Do you know how I referred to Monford before he became a Ser, my Lord? Jace came up with this name!” Aurane returned, his green eyes glinting with mischief. If he was cowed by Connington’s rebuke, he didn’t show it. Arthur didn’t know whether to admonish the boy for his insolence or applaud his courage, though had he been in a better mood, he would have delighted in the put out expression on Jon’s face.

“Don’t you dare, Aurane,” Monford warned, looking from Aurane to Rhaegar worriedly. Monford was a few years younger than Rhaegar and Arthur, and he had grown up idolizing the two of them. Arthur had to suppress a chuckle as the knight tried to keep his younger brother from embarrassing him.

“…Mudford!” Aurane said loudly, laughing as he steered his pony away from Monford’s attempts to box his ears. Everyone except for Jon laughed as the boy tore down the road.

“Aurane! Aurane, get back here!” Monford shouted ineffectually before smacking his forehead in exasperation. He looked back to Rhaegar in mortification, blushing all the way to the roots of his light blonde hair. “I swear, that boy will be the death of me. How did you manage _two_ squires, my Prince? Especially _those_ ruffians” He gestured back to where Ser Richard Lonmouth and Ser Miles Mooton – formerly Rhaegar’s squires and now newly knighted – roared in laughter over a joke of some sort. Richard mimed a pair of breasts over his chest and Miles was doubled over his horse, gasping for breath. Beside them, Ser Oswell Whent, one of Arthur’s sworn brothers, tried his best to seem like an adult.  Jon scowled at the impropriety – for him, this entire tourney had been a waste of time even before the Aerys had decided to attend, and he was already in a sour mood.

“I sometimes wonder myself, Monford,” Rhaegar said dryly, shaking his head.

“Perhaps that is why you haven’t taken on another, my Prince?” Miles asked cheekily. “The Seven know I wouldn’t want another Lonnie on my hands.”

“I would have you know that I brought honor and glory to Prince Rhaegar when I was his squire,” Richard scoffed.

“And many a headache too,” Monford snarked. “How many times have we pulled you from a tavern half asleep and drunk?”

“More than I can remember, I imagine!” Richard laughed. The other men, even the humorless Jon Connington, laughed loudly, and Arthur saw Rhaegar crack a small smile even as she shook his head in light disapproval. “I want to take some boy into my service when the tourney begins,” Richard said eagerly, “teach the lad the ways of the world.”

“Because that’s what the realm needs, more of you, Lonnie,” Monford snorted. “Two of you would drink the Arbor dry.”

“And eat enough to cause a famine!” Miles laughed, moving his horse out of the way as Rickard lunged for him.

“Will you take a squire, Your Grace?” Jon asked of Rhaegar. His mien was serious, brokering no jape, and Arthur knew he meant it purely in political terms – an offer by the Crown Prince to raise some Lord’s son was an honor, a valuable method of gaining loyalty… or a hostage.

“I may,” Rhaegar said thoughtfully. “Perhaps some boy who distinguishes himself in the squires’ tourney.”

“It would be a fine prize,” Miles agreed. “As fine as learning under the Sword of the Morning himself?” He tilted his head to Arthur as he asked the question.

“Do knights of the King’s Guard even take squires into their service?” Richard asked. “I haven’t seen any of you chasing boys around.”

“I was squired to Barristan when I was a boy,” Arthur pointed out.

“I can play _The Ode_ to remind you. There are a few lines in the first verse,” Rhaegar cheekily pointed out, flashing Arthur a grin. He must have expected a response, but Arthur refused to give it to him, instead turning back to Miles Mooton.

“I believe Gerold has decided to take a squire for himself, Lonnie,” Miles mused. “What is the boy’s name, Os?”

“Gerold,” Oswell remembered. “Your cousin, Dayne, if I am not mistaken,” he remarked, looking to Arthur.

“My uncle’s son,” Arthur agreed. Ser Joffrey Dayne was his father’s younger brother, a landed knight with a keep of his own, high in the Red Mountains and overlooking the Torrentine north of Starfall. He’d all but begged for his boy to follow Arthur’s path, squiring for Arthur as Arthur had done for Ser Barristan.

Arthur had balked, instead suggesting that the boy come into the service of the Lord Commander of the King’s Guard. He was a few years older than Arthur was when he left Starfall for King’s Landing, two-and-ten while Arthur had been a boy of six. “Two Gerolds, though. It will be bloody confusing,” Miles observed. “There are too many _Gerold_ ’s in this world.”

“Perhaps some Lord will name his heir for the great red minnow?” Richard snickered, referring to the small crimson fish that graced the banners of the Mootons. Miles flashed him a rather rude, unknightly gesture.

“I heard that one of Walder Frey’s grandsons bears my name,” Rhaegar commented with a sardonic grin. “Perhaps the highest honor I shall ever know.” The Rivermen, Miles and Oswell, laughed the loudest at that, though the dubious reputation of the House Frey earned a reluctant chuckle from Arthur too.

“The boy’s more than his surname. Judge him not simply by his surname,” Arthur said, trying not to laugh. Rhaegar grinned at his half-hearted protests, and Arthur turned away, unable to harden his heart against Rhaegar’s brilliant smile. Only Rhaegar Targaryen could turn him into a blushing maiden.

“But still, _Rhaegar Frey_ ,” Richard laughed. “Gods, to bear the weight of not one but _two_ so beloved names!”

“At least the boy will not suffer from the burden of high expectations!” even Monford was not averse to jesting over that most beloved Riverlands House. Every man from the Prince of Dragonstone to humblest plowman had a story of the frustrating, implacable, irascible Lord of the Crossing.

Arthur looked over to see Jon’s lips curling into a frown. He and Arthur ridden for the Twins with the Crown’s Arbiter of the Riverlands to audit House Frey once, and Arthur would rather face down a hundred Smiling Knights than endure another conversation with old Walder Frey.

“But anyways, tell me about Gerold’s new squire, Arthur,” Rhaegar urged, trying to prod Arthur into speaking with him.

“Yes, tell us about the next great Dayne,” Richard agreed.

“He’s named for Hightower,” Arthur recalled reluctantly. “The boy’s mother is one of Gerold’s nieces. Ashara tells me he’s… _quiet._ ” He hadn’t known Gerold Dayne very well, but Ashara had called him a queer boy who skulked around moodily with a black cloud over his head. Someone had once called the boy the black sheep of the Daynes – a _Dark Star,_ so to speak – and he answered to _Darkstar_ ever since.

Arthur often wondered if he was like that as a boy. He certainly hoped not.

“As for me, I may take one of my nephews as a squire when we reach Harrenhal. And you, Arthur?” Oswell asked.

“Likely not,” Arthur answered, shaking his head. “I can polish my arms and care for my horse well enough. I have no need for some boy to run my errands.”

“Taking a squire isn’t about having someone wipe your arse,” Monford scoffed. “Is that why you’ve never done so?”

“I daresay most would find me a poor knight to squire for,” Arthur said hesitatingly.

“There’s not a boy in the Seven Kingdoms who would agree with that,” Richard snorted. “Why, all you did was knight Jaime Lannister and the boy nearly fainted!”

“Arthur could never take a squire – he is quite possibly the worst teacher I have ever seen,” Rhaegar laughed. “He cannot fathom that us mere men lack his divine, innate prowess with the sword.” Arthur wanted to say something back, but he was trying to ignore Rhaegar, and he couldn’t disagree with the remark. Besides, from the way Rhaegar flashed him a quick smirk, Arthur guessed that he was referring to a wholly different sort of _sword_.

Nothing was more frustrating that a pupil who couldn’t follow instructions, and Arthur had little patience for failure.

“But what about teaching the next generation of knights?” Monford wondered incredulously. “Carrying on that Andal tradition of chivalry, raising those who follow to be gallant and true?”

“Is that what you’ve been trying to do with Aurane?” Miles smirked. “Hasn’t worked out that well for you, has it…”

Monford just shook his head and sighed in resignation.

“This is why you never take your sibling as a squire, Monford,” Rhaegar said knowingly, gesturing down the road to where Aurane had disappeared. “There’s something about little brothers that makes them perpetually rebellious. What do you think, Os?” he asked the Riverman. There was no response, and Arthur looked back to see Ser Oswell Whent staring at the same towers that had captured Arthur’s attention. He was born here, Arthur remembered, for Ser Oswell was a Whent of Harrenhal, the younger brother of the lord of the castle, Walter Whent.

“I’ll never get used to that sight,” Oswell breathed quietly, drawing Arthur’s gaze back to the towers. He could just barely make out the banners of House Whent flying from the lower towers – the higher parts hadn’t been used since Aegon and his dragon roasted Harren the Black inside. “It’s been twelve years since I’ve seen the great towers of my home – twelve years, can you believe it, Dayne?” he asked incredulously. “My brother has three sons, and I’ve not met one.” Ser Oswell shook his head, and Arthur saw his eyes dart to the greathelm in his hands and the great black bat that spread its wings over the top. “The last time I saw him was when he married Sheila, that little wife of his. Where did all the days go?”

“You’ve a wife of your own to take up all your time, Whent,” Richard Lonmouth laughed, slapping a hand on one of Oswell’s silver pauldrens where the white cloak of his sacred order was clasped to his white steel armor. “Even now she clings onto your back and refuses to let go.”

“I assure you, she never does,” Oswell mused with a sardonic curl of his lips.

“Granted, she more like than not leaves you cold at night,” Miles japed. Jon scoffed loudly, rolling brown eyes. He was never one for this sort of talk for much the same reasons that Arthur never had the inclination to boast about his conquests. At least Arthur’s affections had been returned, and it was merely duty that came between him and Rhaegar.

“Duty may be a frigid mistress, Lonny, Miles,” Rhaegar said to his former squires, his voice tinged with the color of personal experience and his words cutting deep to Arthur’s heart, “but the life of a true knight involves more than wandering the countryside leaving skulls and kisses in your wake. Else the words I spoke with my sword on your shoulder were nothing more than wind.”

“Or the cloaks Arthur and I wear merely finely spun cloth,” Oswell added. Monford solemnly nodded along in agreement, stroking his moustache. Miles was at least a touch chastened, but Richard just shrugged, flashing a dashing smile as he rolled his eyes.

“I can assure you I will not seek one of those cloaks for myself,” Richard laughed. “My yellow one will have to satisfy me, for I’ll take a woman over the White Book any day.”

The White Book, housed in the chambers of the Lord Commander of the King’s Guard high in the White Sword Tower of the Red Keep, was a detailed history of the King’s Guard, of every knight who took up the White Cloak and swore their lives and honor to defend the King. It was an honor extended to a privileged few, the finest and truest knights across the realm, and Arthur could still remember the day Ser Gerold Hightower wrote the beginnings of his entry and put the fine white fabric over his shoulders. He’d felt like a maiden shrouded in the cloak of her husband then, though he was pledging his life to the King, not in marriage but in a higher calling. Arthur had risen a knight of the King’s Guard, and though he swore to protect the King, his eyes found not King Aerys II Targaryen seated on the twisted throne of his forebears but rather the true king, Prince Rhaegar.

“You would turn down the chance to be one of the knights of the King’s Guard?” Monford asked in disbelief. “To be one of the greatest knights who ever lived? For what? A night with a tavern wench?”

“You didn’t see this one, Mudford, else you may agree with him,” Miles added, grinning at the way Monford squawked in protest at the unfortunate nickname. “Biggest teats this side of Blackwater, I assure you.”

“I pray that King Aerys decides honor me with a place in his King's Guard,” Monford huffed. "There's few greater honors for a third son." Arthur looked at his cousin in agreement - he'd said something similar to his own Lord father when he took the White. 

Monford started to add something, but changed his mind before speaking, deciding that he wouldn’t sway either man to the cause of chaste chivalry today. “Who do you think Aerys will grace with a white cloak?” He asked instead referring to the space filled by the passing of the old Ser Harlen Grandison in his sleep.

Arthur remembered the old knight as kind and gently but infirm, knowing him mostly at the end of his long life of service. The other six knights of that holy brotherhood – Oswell, Prince Lewyn Martell, Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Jonothor Darry, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Arthur himself – had long since taken up his duties, and they had known it was inevitable that a new knight be raised to immortality in service and duty to the King.

 _The true King_ , Arthur thought, his eyes drifting unconsciously to Rhaegar. _A King is more than just a body on a throne of swords._

“I cannot say what my father plans,” Rhaegar admitted. “I doubt even he can say; the Seven only know what whims govern my father’s actions and plans. I would suggest your name, Monford, if I thought my father would listen. All I can hope for is that he chooses a man who may be amenable to our cause.”

And Arthur could agree to that.

As the seven men rode down the road to Harrenhal, Arthur found himself subconsciously inching back towards Rhaegar’s side. While Arthur and Oswell were clad head to toe in shining silver steel, Rhaegar wore black and red finery with the red Targaryen dragon emblazoned everywhere. There was a finely decorated longsword at his hip, silver and black steel forged by the finest smith in the Street of Steel. Over his shoulder, Rhaegar had a leather satchel that held his humble traveler’s harp and a precious book dating to the Age of Heroes, one of the only tomes of The Prince Who Was Promised to survive the famous purge of King Baelor the Blessed. Arthur had spent countless nights standing at Rhaegar’s side while the young Prince pored over its contents, obsessing over this prophecy of the apocalypse and the one hero who could guide humanity through the Long Night.

All in all, this was as close to a normal attire that the Prince of Dragonstone could get, but Arthur always thought it made Rhaegar shine even more than he normally did. The black fabric made the silver of his hair stand out even more, and the collar opened just slightly to expose tanned, golden skin. Arthur’s eyes involuntarily traced a path from his collarbone up the side of his slender, graceful neck and along the lines of Rhaegar’s face, taking in his cheekbones and the shape of his jaw and nose and…

It was only when Arthur caught Rhaegar’s knowing gaze that he realized how much he’d been staring. Rhaegar cocked a single perfectly manicured silver brow, and Arthur grimaced inwardly, forcing some distance between them. He turned to Oswell, who had been blithely speaking without noticing that no one was listening.

“Forgive me, Oswell, but could you repeat that? I fear much has been weighing on my thoughts of late,” Arthur said apologetically, trying his best not to think of what that weight had been.

“The specter of my father seems to haunt us all, Arthur,” Rhaegar cut in, joining in on the two knights’ conversation much to Arthur’s chagrin.

“He does indeed,” Oswell agreed. “I was wondering, though, if you have missed your family in Starfall as much as I did mine here in Harrenhal.”

“Somewhat,” Arthur admitted. His relationship with his family was complicated, to say the least. His father, Lord Beric Dayne, was a stoic, closed-off man who had married twice in his life. His first wife, Lady Myrielle Manwoody, died on the birthing bed giving birth to Arthur’s brother, Ali Dayne, the heir to Starfall. Lord Dayne’s second wife was Alyssa Velaryon, the younger sister of Lord Lucerys of Driftmark. She was the mother to Arthur and his younger sister, Ashara, but a fever had taken her when Arthur was a page in King’s Landing. Lord Beric had never been the same after the death of his second wife, and after the funeral, Arthur had only seen his father one more time, when he was sworn as the Sword of the Morning and given Dawn.

Arthur and Ali had never been close – their different mothers resulted in their having markedly different appearances and dispositions. Ali was a Dornishman through and through, with Dornish fire in his stomach and an intense pride in the heritage of his homeland. Arthur, as Ali uncharitably put it when Arthur returned to Starfall to accept his family’s highest honor, was hardly Dornish. He carried himself with all the trappings of a knight from the Reach or the Vale, and even when he returned to Starfall, Arthur had found himself longing for the liveliness of King’s Landing and the fiery passion of Rhaegar’s… _everything._

“I am very close with my sister, Ashara,” Arthur said, realizing that he’d been lost in his own thoughts. “Less so with my father and brother,” he admitted. Since the age of eight, Arthur had been closer to Rhaegar than Lord Beric or Ali. The Crown Prince had been like a second brother, and later their bond had become even closer, perhaps touching on the one part of Arthur that was certainly Dornish.

“Ah… the lovely Ashara Dayne,” Richard whistled, oblivious to Rhaegar’s amused raised eyebrow and Arthur’s markedly less amused glare. “Her hair as black as the darkest night, her skin pale as moonlight, her eyes cut like priceless amethysts, a fallen star so bright…” No, Arthur was not amused at all.

“Careful, Lonnie,” Monford warned. “You know how close Arthur is to the Lady Ashara.” Arthur shared a glance with his cousin, shaking his head as Richard continued.

“I just know quite a few of us who would relish the opportunity to get close to the Lady Ashara too, Monford,” Richard laughed.

“Lady Ashara is sharp and beautiful, much like another daughter of Starfall,” Rhaegar said, his eyes darting meaningfully to the jeweled hilt of Dawn over Arthur’s shoulder. “If you get to close to one, you may find yourself uncomfortably familiar with the other.”

“I assure you, I would never presume…” Richard said, eyes widening as he held up his hands in surrender. “I value my bollocks too much.”

“Clearly not,” Miles cut in, “else you would be a bit more discerning over who you share those bollocks with.” Monford and Oswell snorted, hiding their laughter. Richard just let out a giant belly laugh.

“Perhaps I merely just enjoy sharing with the realm.”

“Speaking for the realm,” Rhaegar said dryly, “share less.” There was little arguing with that, Arthur thought of the rightful and future King. He _did_ speak for the realm, more than anyone else did. Watching his friends laugh around Rhaegar’s charisma and wit, Arthur felt the familiar sense of pride in the Dragon Prince, a wonder that he could inspire such confidence and _love_ and that Arthur could possibly be worthy of him.

Then Arthur remembered that Rhaegar _wasn’t_ his, that soon enough Rhaegar would have a wife and little children and Arthur would have to pretend that his duty was enough.

“Speaking for the realm…” Rhaegar mused, his mood darkening. “Do I really, though? I had assumed that this would be my chance to prove the legitimacy of my cause, but with my father in attendance…”

“I have to wonder if His Grace suspects our plans,” Oswell echoed. “Lucerys, Chelsted, and Staunton would have him keep a closer eye on you.”

“If he did, we would be surrounded by a different shade of green,” Jon said soberly, his words casting a shadow among the few quiet conversations. It was almost incredible how quickly the mood shifted. Richard and Miles halted their bawdy discussion, with the Knight of Skulls and Kisses sporting a uncharacteristically pensive frown. Monford looked around for Aurane, and Arthur knew he was almost relieved that the troublesome boy had ridden out of earshot – the last thing Monford wanted was to involve his brother in treason.

And it was treason, what these seven men quietly discussed as they rode to Harrenhal. Arthur had spent the better part of fifteen years in the Mad King’s court, and the sight of the gnarled, disheveled Aerys looking on in glee as men, women, and children screamed from burning wildfire pyres haunted Arthur on many a sleepless night. Rhaegar had always said that his father’s lunacy would bring bloodshed to the realm one day unless he devised a scheme to peacefully depose Aerys. Arthur subconsciously traced along a scar on his left palm – he, Rhaegar, and Jon had sworn a blood vow to overthrow Aerys when they were but boys of ten horrified by the way the King burned innocent people alive, and more so by the resigned acceptance of the courtiers and lords who were too cowardly or unscrupulous to raise their objections. Arthur still remembered Rhaegar drawing the dagger along his palm, then Jon doing the same. Arthur had been nervous, terrified that they’d be found out and he’d find himself – or worse his sister – atop the next pyre in the Great Hall, and he cut too deeply. Arthur had come frighteningly close to losing his sword hand that day, a near end to the legacy of the Sword of the Morning before it even began, and the jagged scar had left him with a permanent reminder of their dangerous undertaking.

“We will have to approach the lords individually,” Rhaegar said exhaustedly, and Arthur recognized the weary man underneath the façade of the Silver Prince, beaten and tired from a decade of protecting his family’s dynasty from the madness of his father and the unscrupulous courtiers who surrounded him. The Tourney at Harrenhal should have been the perfect opportunity for Rhaegar to assemble the most powerful men in the realm and sway them to his cause. Someone had tipped Aerys, though, and now the Mad King would be in attendance.

“That will take years,” Miles said, shaking his head. “Can we afford to wait long?”

“Aerys will not remain on that throne,” Monford agreed.

“If only everyone in your family shared your perspective, Monford,” Rhaegar said, shaking his head. “Your Lord father’s steadfast loyalty to mine own would be admirable had Aerys been sane these past years.” Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Driftmark and King Aerys’ Master of Ships, was among the staunchest of loyalists to the regime. He and Aerys had grown up as close as brothers, and Lucerys refused to see the truth of the King’s lunacy.

“Him and bloody Lord Chelsted,” Oswell grumbled darkly. “We should be lucky Aerys merely decided to attend the tourney and not order it cancelled altogether.”

“What was that he and Aerys said to you, Arthur?” Monford asked, with a raised eyebrow.

“His Grace bid me to monitor Prince Rhaegar, and to report back with any new of treason… or put Dawn through his heart,” Arthur said dryly, as though the idea of hurting Rhaegar in any way didn’t make him sick to his stomach.

“Perhaps I should fear for my life, Arthur?” Rhaegar jested with an insufferable smirk. Arthur could think of a half-dozen ways of wiping that smirk off of Rhaegar’s face. “The Seven know my father would replace me with you in a heartbeat if he thought he could pass you off as a dragon.”

“Or mine own and a seahorse,” Monford added, twirling his light blonde mustache. "Gods, you should hear my father!  _Oh, Jacaerys, Arthur would never stumble drunkenly into bed after disappearing for three days. Corlys, Arthur never grows out his beard. Monford, Arthur practices swordplay every day._ " A laugh went around at that, with Rhaegar and Richard laughing the loudest. "Seven Hells, before we left he reminded Aurane that you always ate your vegetables!"

"Ask Ashara, she always ate Arthur's carrots for him!" Rhaegar laughed, and Arthur couldn't help but laugh with him.

“What is your secret, Arthur? Is it the sword?” Richard asked. “If tavern owners offered me as many drinks and wenches their beds as they do you, I’d never be sober or clothed again.”

“Lonnie, even without Dawn I could cut through the six of you with my eyes closed and my sword hand tied behind my back,” Arthur scoffed cockily. One might say that Arthur could have been a touch humbler in his declaration, but Arthur would argue that his assertion was, if anything, an understatement of his ability.

“You think he’s gloating, but he isn’t,” Oswell said dryly. “Ask Lewyn, Willem, and Jonothor what happened when we had the brilliant idea to challenge Arthur together in the sparring yard. He did all that but with a dagger he pulled from me – blindfold and bindings and everything.” Richard whistled in admiration; he knew better than to cast doubt on the veracity of Oswell’s story lest Arthur prove himself again.

“All of us, though?” Rhaegar challenged with a twinkle in his eye. “I think Barristan or I could give you a worthy challenge, Arthur. Perhaps I shall teach the Sword of the Morning humility on the jousting pitch.”

“Really?” Arthur returned without thinking. “I had you on your back at the tilt at the Bronzegate.” Rhaegar raised an intrigued brow, as if to say _you did that and more that night_ , and Arthur wanted to smack his forehead in reproach as he flushed down to the collar of his breastplate.

“The King was quite happy to hear it,” Jon said, ever grim. _Not all of it, had he known_ , Arthur dryly thought. “I think he fears you would take after Daemon Blackfyre’s example, Prince Rhaegar.” At Miles’ questioning frown, he continued. “Daemon’s martial prowess earned him the respect of many a knight and Lord. He’s known as _the King who Bore the Sword_ for a reason – Taking Blackfyre into battle made him appear Aegon the Conqueror reborn, especially to those dissatisfied with Daeron’s infirmity and bookishness. Do not assume Aerys and his minions so easily forgot the day you traded your books for a sword, my Prince.”

“Perhaps I should be worried that the comparison is not unwarranted,” Rhaegar mused.

“Daeron was not mad,” Arthur said simply.

“Still, we should be grateful that Dayne remains in the King’s good graces,” Miles said. “I don’t fancy a wildfire bath quite yet.”

“Nor I, Miles,” Rhaegar agreed. “There’s an old saying in my family that fire cannot harm a dragon, but I must confess that I’ve never felt the urge to test its wisdom for myself.”

“Didn’t Aerion Brightflame die by drinking wildfire?” Monford pointed out. “He thought it would turn him into a dragon.”

“Now there’s a man to emulate if I’ve ever seen one,” Richard said dryly.

“Between Brightflame, Blackfyre, Maegor the Cruel, Aenys, Viserys, and every Aegon but the first…  and my own father, I must wonder if any of my illustrious family remained sane,” Rhaegar chuckled darkly. A familiar shadow crossed over Rhaegar’s beautiful features, a darkness that hovered over his mind and weighed on his thoughts.

“I asked my father once how he could live with himself, after the Mad King ordered the deaths of everyone in the castle Golden Rush,” Monford recalled thoughtfully. “He told me that I was spending too much time with you, my Prince. He said you’d fill my head with treasonous thoughts, that you would be the death of House Velaryon.” Monford shook his head mirthlessly. "My brothers have tried to speak of this with him. He and Jace had an awful row a few moons ago, and they haven't spoken since."

Arthur nodded, remembering the elder Velaryon twins confiding with Rhaegar after the argument, when they rode down to the ruins of Sumerhall. Jacaerys, the younger of the two, had shouted bloody murder while ever dutiful Corlys played peacemaker like always. There was something different that day, though. Aerys had burned a family of ten, and even Corlys swore that he must not remain on the Iron Throne.

Born on the same day to the King's own cousin, Corlys and Jacaerys Velaryon looked the same but where polar opposites. Corlys, called the Sea Dragon after his mother, was a man of honor... of duty. He usually remained in Driftmark, attending to the castle while his Lord father served in the King's Small Council as His Grace's Hand. Jacaerys, though... He earned the name Sea Snake. A firebrand, that man was, Arthur knew from experience. Jacaerys Velaryon sailed from Lorath to Lys, and Arthur dared not imagine what mischief he pulled during his voyages.

Arthur could only hope that the Velaryon sons could convince their father to remove his support of Aerys before yet another family was torn apart. _Torn apart by our schemes,_ he thought sadly. 

“Perhaps Lucerys has the right of it,” Rhaegar wondered aloud. “Every time a member of my damned family tried to contest the throne, the realm paid thrice over in blood. Am I a fool for hoping I could succeed where they failed? Am I a monster for wanting to try?”

“A change is inevitable. If not us, someone else will take the Iron Throne from Aerys. For the House Targaryen to survive, for the good of the realm, _you_ must become that next King,” Jon gravely intoned. “Our highest ambition should be to ensure a transition without bloodshed.”

“Gods help us if we give Tywin Lannister the chance to fly that golden lion of his over the Red Keep,” Richard said sardonically. The tension in the air broke slightly as a soft laughter passed through the group.

“Gods help us indeed,” Rhaegar muttered, catching Arthur’s eye with a small smile.

They made the rest of their way to Harrenhal in a companionable silence, and Arthur took the time to let his mind wander. The seven were each of them knights, charged under the Seven to be valiant and chivalrous as was the Andal tradition going back to the Age of Heroes. Oswell had been knighted by the ‘Triskelion True Knight’ Ser Clinton Massey on the Stepstones for his courage in the War of the Ninepenny Kings more than twenty years ago, when Maelys Blackfyre and the rest of his insidious Band of Nine sought to usurp the Iron Throne. Miles and Monford had counted among the brave men knighted in the Kingswood after the defeat of Simon Toyne’s infamous Kingswood Brotherhood. Rhaegar, though born to a far grander title than Ser, nevertheless earned his knighthood through peerless gallantry, fighting a trial by combat for the honor and justice of a smith’s daughter in King’s Landing who had been raped by one of the knights at court.

Jon’s own spurs had come by more mysterious, underhanded ways. Lord Mathis Bar Emmon was a poor petty lord whose debts had surreptitiously been forgiven through creative accounting when Jon had briefly held the position of Arbiter of the Lesser Crownlands under the Master of Coin Lord Qarlton Chelsted. Lord Bar Emmon had naught to give Jon as thanks save for the title of Ser, and so Jon became Ser Jon Connington. That Jon had been knighted for reasons spurious at best was a point of contention between him and Richard, who had received his own knighthood for a much more traditional reason, triumphing in the melee in the Grassy Vale. One man knighted for his prowess with the sword, the other for his quill.

That left Arthur himself. Before he was known as the Sword of the Morning, he was a squire in King’s Landing. Arthur had been knighted at the youngest age of them all, a mere boy of thirteen when he and Ser Barristan rescued King Aerys II Targaryen from the rebellious Lord Denys Darklyn of Duskendale. As a young squire, Arthur had earned a previous reputation in court for his innate talent with the blade, but it was only after the Defiance of Duskendale, where he slew half a dozen grown knights, that his name began to spread across the lips of the people of the Crownlands. Arthur had been lauded for his bravery and skill with the sword and permanently earned the admiration and respect of even the Mad King – Aerys had commanded Barristan to knight him the second they escaped past the walls of Duskendale. Arthur wasn’t so self-effacing as to deny the mountains of praise that followed, that same deadliness and chivalry would later earn him the right to use the sword on his back two years later, but many nights he found the weight of those expectations heavier than Starfall herself. Only one man had truly understood that pressure and Arthur’s perpetual fear that one day he’d fall short and the people he cared about would pay the price for his failure. Some nights, only Rhaegar’s soft touch could calm the troubled waters of his thoughts, and Arthur missed the nights they’d hold each other close, listening to the sounds of King’s Landing and the beating of each other’s hearts – he would never have those nights when Rhaegar became a married man.

Arthur was so lost in thoughts of flushed cheeks and violet irises nearly hidden by black pupils blown wide with lust that he nearly missed the sound of riders approaching from the front. He looked up to see Aurane return with a few men bearing the black bats of the noble House Whent. Three men and two boys followed the bastard squire, and Arthur assumed they were Lord Walter’s household knights.

“Your Grace,” One of the men acknowledged as the five dismounted and knelt to Rhaegar. The men clanked in their armor as Rhaegar bid them to rise.

“Well met Sers,” Rhaegar said, his voice exuding both regal surety and an agreeable gentleness. “Please tell me your names. I assume you come on the behalf of Lord Whent?”

“We do, my Prince,” the oldest one, a man with a set of great white whiskers and little hair elsewhere, said. “I am Ser Amos Oldspur, Master-at-Arms at Harrenhal. These are Sers Jim Kite and Tenry Bellam, and the boys are Lord Walter’s eldest sons, Harris and Foster.” The boys seemed o alternate between staring at Rhaegar and Arthur, and Arthur recognized their familiar starry-eyed look of hero worship.

“Ah, my nephews,” Ser Oswell said with a grin, bringing his steed closer. “Let me get a look of you, lads.” He gave the two boys an appraising eye. “You look exactly like Walter did at your age, Harris.” He shook his head slightly. “Soon you’ll be riding in these tourneys yourself!”

“Father said I may try my bow in the squires’ shoot, uncle,” the boy said excitedly. “I think I will win!”

“What would you do with the prize money, son?” Richard asked, smiling at the boy’s energy. Arthur figured he was remembering his own first tourney.

“I want a new sword, Ser,” Harris said. “Or armor for the squires’ joust! Or…”

“You had best win, then!” Miles laughed.

“Father told us to come and greet you, Ser,” the younger one, Foster Whent, said breathlessly, staring at Oswell’s shining silver armor and his black helmet.

“Very well then, Sers,” Rhaegar said, his voice only slightly grim. “Take me to Lord Whent immediately. I fear I have much of import to discuss.”

 

Lord Whent wasn’t happy.

Arthur never thought he would be, but even still he felt unnerved at the way Lord Whent gnashed his teeth and stewed in frustration. The portly man rubbed his thinning dirty-blonde hair as he walked through the Godswood with Rhaegar, Oswell, Arthur, and Jon. The twenty acre woods built by the First Men were haunting and ominous, and the superstitious smallfolk and servants avoided the area reliably – it was a perfect place to talk without fear of one of Varys’ little birds relaying their every word back to King’s Landing. Rhaegar had figured it was the perfect place for Lord Walter Whent to let out all his frustration, frustration they all shared.

The men were quiet for a moment, the only sounds their footsteps on fallen leaves and the faint clinking of Oswell’s armor – Arthur’s was hand-crafted by the legendary Tobho Mott, and it barely made a sound. The wind whistled softly through the dense green foliage, the breeze cool from the waters of the God’s Eye. As the men stopped to take their rest at a clearing far from the castle, Arthur took his place at Rhaegar’s back, standing perfectly still with a hand on the sidearm on his hip as he listened for anyone else in the Godswood.

“There’s nothing to be done? Can we wait until he leaves?” Whent asked weakly, leaning against a tall old ironoak. He took a small horn of ale from his belt and took a swig, offering the other men a sip which they all politely declined. He had been one of the first lords Rhaegar approached regarding his plans to assemble the realm against his father, and the Lord of Harrenhal took it as a point of personal pride that the next King of the Seven Kingdoms wanted _him_ as the center-point of his ascendance to the throne. “Do you know everything I put into this tourney? Archery, races, seven-blessed melees – all with their own grand purses for prizes – grand feasts every night… This will be the greatest tourney in living memory, and it is all for naught if Mad Aerys graces us with his presence.”

“I am well aware of the cost of this tourney,” Jon said with exasperation. “I secured most of the coin.” Rhaegar and Jon had, through an _imaginative_ accounting, found the resources to hold a tourney worthy of inviting the entire realm. They wouldn’t say it aloud, but Arthur knew Jon wanted to tell Lord Walter that the only reason they chose Harrenhal was because the castle had room for a few hundred lords noble and petty. The Whents were not all that important to their calculus and had the Curse of Harrenhal taken House Whent like it did the Houses Hoare, Qoherys, Lothrom, and Strong, than Rhaegar and Jon would have little qualms with taking into their confidence the next man with more ambition than sense.

Jon explained, “When the King arrives, his eyes will be on us at all times. Even coming here in advance required a delicate touch, and only made him more suspicious. Half his small council suspects us of treason.”

“Of course,” Lord Whent said curtly, gesturing towards Arthur. “The Mad King sent his spy along. I hope we can count on your discretion, Dayne. Tell Aerys we were loyal and drank toasts to his health.”

Arthur and Oswell shared a look. As sworn knights of the King’s Guard, they were charged with protecting the life and honor of their King and his family, to give their best counsel when asked and to keep silent at all other times. Arthur had grown accustomed to obeying those vows to the letter, silently standing guard as Rhaegar held secret conversations with vassals who might support him against Aerys.

“Trust me, Walter,” Rhaegar assured him, his voice calming like a placid pool, “there’s no one I trust more than Arthur.” Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Jon scoff quietly, but the man didn’t say anything.

“It’s the man always behind you with the most opportunity to stab you in the back.” Whent grimaced. “One of the other Riverlords must have whispered something to Aerys… I know they envy Harrenhal and her wealth.” Arthur tried not to roll his eyes at that, and from the way Rhaegar gave him a side-eye, he felt much the same.

“If Arthur wanted to strike me down, he needn’t condescend himself to subterfuge,” Rhaegar returned dryly. “You may not have heard, but Arthur is quite adept with that beautiful sword of his.” For a brief moment, Rhaegar flashed Arthur as close to a lecherous smirk that the eternally chivalrous and gallant Prince of Dragonstone could make, and Arthur wanted to groan at his double meaning.

“Ha! I’ve heard the songs, Your Grace,” Whent coughed. He took a seat on a fallen log, and Rhaegar gestured with his chin for the knights to rest here. “So, I can assume you will take a lance, Dayne?” he asked Arthur.

In truth, Arthur wanted to say no, to refuse the glory and focus on his duties as a knight of the King’s Guard. But there was a part of Arthur that enjoyed the fame, that enjoyed the way people looked at him with awe and reverence, as if he was as great a man as, well… as Prince Rhaegar. So, of course he would joust. Clad in shining armor with lances striped with the silver and lavender of his noble House and the legendary sword of his forebears on his back. Perhaps he shouldn’t so relish the glory, but Arthur _did_.

So, of course he was going to enter the lists, and of course he would do his best to win, Rhaegar and Barristan and Oswell and all the rest be damned.

“What is the prize for the victor?” Arthur asked simply, as if it mattered. Whent grinned, excited to answer.

“A crown of Winter Roses to hand to the fairest maiden in the realm,” Walter Whent boasted, in what was certainly a practiced line. “I’m sure that any maiden would be honored to receive a crown from the Sword of the Morning,” he said, hoping to convince Arthur. It wasn’t that Arthur needed convincing – he was certainly going to enter the lists, for no other reason than to avoid the sight of Rhaegar crowning his bride-to-be.

“My sister, Ashara, will be in attendance, my Lord,” Arthur said. “You can be assured that I will wear her favor when I don my armor and ready my lance.”

“The beautiful Lady Ashara Dayne,” Walter Whent grinned. “I’m sure you will find many others who seek her favor, Dayne.” He laughed and slapped Arthur on the back before turning to Rhaegar. “Does Your Grace have a particular maiden in mind?” he asked Rhaegar curiously. Arthur barely noticed Rhaegar wince, frowning darkly to the ground. “Rumor has it that you will crown the next Queen should you win the joust.”

“He would need to win the joust first,” Oswell said. He gave Arthur a sly look as he said, “a certain other dashing silver man has been winning tourneys left and right these days.”

“From Lannisport to Storm’s End to Bronzegate to Highgarden… I might worry for Lady Ashara’s neck if Arthur lays yet more flower crowns on her head at this pace,” Rhaegar chuckled and leaned towards Arthur’s ear. “I had you at the first Tourney at Storm’s End, though.”

How Rhaegar truly _had_ him that day went unsaid, Arthur noted, though he obviously couldn’t say that. “And yet Ser Barristan won that day,” Arthur pointed out instead, “and who was it who took the crown when Lord Steffon’s son held one?”

“But if you are the victor, Prince Rhaegar?” Lord Walter pressed eagerly. “You crowned your Queen Mother in King’s Landing.”

“We haven’t announced a betrothal,” Jon cut in, always one to keep every option close to his heart. “You will learn of it with the rest of the Realm.” He levelled Whent with a cold look, as if to say _keep your nose out of it_ , but Rhaegar waved him off. Lord Walter wrinkled his nose in distaste, and Arthur noticed the ever observant Rhaegar catch the subconscious gesture of dissatisfaction.

“I hear my father has chosen Princess Elia Martell of Sunspear,” Rhaegar answered, his voice almost conspiratorially low as if to mollify the frustrated lord by bringing him into a confidence. “So, my bride-to-be will be the younger sister of the ruling Prince of Dorne.”

“How did Aerys agree on a Dornishwoman?” Whent asked incredulously, before turning to Arthur with an apologetic look. No doubt he worried that Arthur would defend his homeland with the blade of his people, but Arthur was too busy being bitter and jealous over Rhaegar’s betrothal to be insulted. “I mean no offense Dayne, but Aerys seems less…”

“…unprejudiced?” Rhaegar supplied helpfully, grinning slightly. Walter Whent nodded gratefully in agreement. “I agree. Such is the reason I haven’t found myself wrapping the Princess in a wedding cloak yet. But my father was swayed by the shared heritage of our Houses. So, the Martells should thank Daenerys Martell for their advantageous match.” _They should indeed_ , Arthur thought jealously, not forgetting his own mother was a Velaryon and her family had intermarried with the Targaryens for centuries.

“So, can we rely on Doran Martell to back our cause then?” Whent asked, taking another heavy swig from his horn.

“If only we were so lucky,” Jon muttered, shaking his head. “No, Doran will not take such a risk. The man is too patient – he would rather wait out Aerys than put himself or his family in danger, regardless of damage Aerys does to the realm in the meantime.”

“I asked Prince Lewyn about his nephew,” Rhaegar said. “He didn’t think Doran was very fond of me, unfortunately.” Rhaegar shook his head. “I fear he thinks I will bring bloodshed to the realm. Even the bonds of marriage would not give me his trust.”

 _Doran trusts few if any_ , Arthur thought, remembering the times he and Ashara would visit the Water Gardens. Even as a young man, Doran was nothing if not inscrutable, and he rarely if ever let anyone know what he was truly thinking. He was everything that his brother Oberyn was not, reserved where Oberyn was impatient, calm where Oberyn was fiery, tactful where Oberyn was blunt, and clever where Oberyn was direct. Arthur had a healthy respect for the Ruling Prince of Dorne, but he hoped to never be in a position where his life was in Prince Doran Martell’s hands.

“Swaying a Great House to our cause will be difficult,” Jon said. “Any one who backs us has all but declared war against Aerys, and he never forgives rebellion.”

“No, he does not,” Rhaegar chuckled mirthlessly. “Have you spoken to Hoster Tully, Walter?” he asked, surprising Arthur. Lord Whent’s liege lord, the Lord Paramount of the Trident, was a rather quiet man. Arthur didn’t know much of the Lord of Riverrun save that he was prideful and held dearly to his words _Family, Duty, Honor_. None of those provided much avenue for support.

“I have on more than a few occasions,” Walter said with resignation. “He refuses to entertain any talk of rebellion.”

“You give up too easily, Walter,” Jon scoffed. At Walter’s affronted look he continued. “The Riverlands are a stone’s throw from King’s Landing, but you would think Hoster Tully a Stark for the way he keeps his people far from court. He may not talk of it where he knows others can hear, but that Trout knows the King is mad, and he likes it not.”

“Jon has the right of it,” Rhaegar mused. “There are Reachmen, Dornishmen, Valemen, Marchers… even Tywin Lannister has some of his people representing him in King’s Landing. Only the Lord of Riverrun eschews a presence in my father’s court. Well, him and Warden of the North.”

“Speaking of the North, Rickard Stark had sent his children to attend the tourney,” Walter said, patting his clothes to find the message. “I kept it with me to show you, as I couldn’t believe what I read. Here,” he said, shoving a scroll into Rhaegar’s hands. “Harrenhal will host Northmen for the first time since Cregan came South.” Rhaegar read the letter quietly, his forehead creasing as his eyes skimmed the words.

“So, Rickard Stark intends for his children to build finally ties with the rest of Westeros, eh? What of it?” Jon asked, shrugging as Rhaegar passed him the letter. The Starks of Winterfell were the only Great House who didn’t factor into their scheme – they stayed above the Neck and more likely than not wouldn’t care either way who sat on the Iron Throne. It made sense that Jon wouldn’t give too much importance to the Starks’ movement, but Arthur saw something in Rhaegar’s eyes, a sense of recognition that made him pause. Rhaegar had long worried over the prophecy of Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised, and all that nonsense. He was convinced that the lost hero would be born in his lifetime, that he needed to find the Ice to his Fire to save the world.

Arthur hoped Rhaegar’s obsession with prophecy wouldn’t complicate their already circuitous designs on the Throne.

“Read where the letter came from, Jon,” Rhaegar said, his voice heavy with meaning as he wisely avoided any talk of the mystical to focus on their more practical concers. “The falcon seal would seem to indicate that the Warden of the East made this decision.” Jon read the letter again, his frown deepening.

“ _Myself, Eddard Stark, and Lord Robert Baratheon will meet Lord Stark’s other children children at Harrenhal’s gates…_ I had forgotten that Lord Arryn has fostered a wolf and a stag in the Eyrie,” Jon said cautiously. “What do you think it means?”

“It means we would be wise not to ignore the Starks of Winterfell,” Rhaegar muttered. “They’ve formed ties to two of the Seven Kingdoms… When was the last time a Wolf ventured South?” he asked. “Not in this century, I do not think…”

“Not since Cregan, I don’t think,” Lord Whent agreed. “Gods, they only come down in the direst of times. Is this an omen, Your Grace?”

“All I can say...” Rhaegar’s lips curled up slightly, “is that it appears the Starks of Winterfell have become very interesting indeed.”

 

The God’s Eye was a giant lake, that much Arthur had known. He’d heard as a child the legends that the Children of the Forest and the First Men had formed a pact of peace at an island in the center, but the God’s Eye was so large Arthur couldn’t see anything but blue-green water all the way to the horizon. The placid lake rippled softly, the waters sliding gently over the pebbles of the lakefront as the waves gently brushed over the shore. Arthur had never been an overly pious man – he’d found the Septons of Oldtown and King’s Landing overbearing, imperious, and hypocritical – but he couldn’t deny the marvelous concord that settled in his heart as he watched the lake’s ebb and flow. _Perhaps the First Men had the right of it in naming this place sacred_ , Arthur thought.

Arthur and Rhaegar sat in the woods a few miles Southwest of Harrenhal, in a lush clearing overlooking the God’s Eye. Rhaegar sat in the shade of a tree, tuning his harp as he again read from that blasted tome. Arthur had always admired Rhaegar’s musical ability – the Dragon Prince had a voice that could make maidens weep and his fingers worked the strings of a harp as well as Arthur’s hands handled Dawn. Arthur couldn’t string two notes together, but even he had to stop and appreciate whenever Rhaegar effortlessly composed a tune.

Rhaegar’s harp was a beaten old traveler’s instrument that a wayward minstrel had given him in his boyhood. The man had sworn that every corner of the known world had heard the sound of those strings, and for Rhaegar, it had been love at first sight. _Look at the cross-stringing! Listen to the overtones!_ Rhaegar would exclaim in excitement, before seeing Arthur lose interest and calling him a philistine. Rhaegar had taken the harp with him everywhere – it and Arthur were his most constant companions. Though Arthur had always dryly mocked Rhaegar’s musicianship as a useless endeavor, it was his closest secret that he relished Rhaegar’s songs as much as any maiden in court.

While Rhaegar plucked at the strings, Arthur took the time to finally relax, satisfied that they were alone. He sat against a tree with Dawn free from her scabbard, and he polished the famous sword’s surface. He tried his best not to stare at Rhaegar’s long, slender fingers as they worked the pegs and strings or the way he pursed his lips in concentration…

 _I am going to lose my hand if I continue like this,_ Arthur chastised himself, turning his head back to his work. He rubbed the oily rag against the pale blade of his greatsword, smearing the black, soapy oil over the magical metal. Arthur recalled his father teaching him of the way the Swords of the Morning of old would cover the surface of Dawn with a black soapy pitch as black as the darkest night before wiping it away to expose an iridescent blade as bright as the sun. _Dawn Shines Through The Darkness_ , Arthur thought, remembering his House’s words as he took a clean cut of fabric and brushed the black, viscous oil off of the sword, exposing a blade that shone with a living flame.

It was a sight Arthur never tired of, one that never failed to evoke the feeling of the first time he held the sword, drawing it from its scabbard for the first time in over a century and basking in the light.

“So, Arthur,” Rhaegar said slowly, not looking up from where a particular string wouldn’t get _perfectly_ in tune. “Are you ready to tell me what it is that has put you in this blackened mood?”

“Blackened mood?” Arthur returned evasively. “How many times have I been forced to endure your ceaseless brooding?” Rhaegar just cocked an eyebrow at the petulant retort, looking up from his harp as he plucked a string. “I’m not in a _mood_ ,” Arthur said rather moodily.

“Of course not,” Rhaegar said wryly, his fingers plucking out the beginnings of Arthur’s least favorite melody, _The Ode to the Sword of the Morning_ , a ten-verse epic Rhaegar continued to build with tales of Arthur’s exploits. “No, your company has been particularly agreeable of late.”

Arthur bristled slightly at Rhaegar’s sarcastic tone. _You know very well why I don’t sing songs of happiness these days,_ he thought, though he didn’t say it. “Apologies if I have failed in my duties, Your Grace,” he shot back.

“ _Your Grace_ …” Rhaegar parroted. “Is that what it has come to, _Ser Dayne_?”

“What would you have me say, Rhaegar?” Arthur snapped, nearly dropping Dawn to the ground.

“ _Anything_ at all, Arthur,” Rhaegar exclaimed, standing up so quickly his hair fell to the side of his face. “You’ve said perhaps seven words to me since we left King’s Landing. Surely I have the right to at least know why my best friend treats me as a stranger?”

Arthur didn’t know what to say, so he sheathed Dawn, letting the light fade behind the leather scabbard. He picked up a roll of bread from his satchel and started tearing pieces to feed to the black swans that called the waters of the God’s Eye home.

“It doesn’t have to end, Arthur,” Rhaegar whispered, walking up to stand next to Arthur, facing the still waters. “I couldn’t bear losing what we’ve had for so long…”

“Do you mean screwing your best friend?” Arthur sneered coldly. His words made Rhaegar flinch as if struck.

“Is that what you think that was, Arthur?” Rhaegar asked, wounded. A part of Arthur felt guilty, hurting someone he loved more than any other.

“Of course not, it was often the other way around,” Arthur muttered. Rhaegar grabbed the rest of the roll of bread from Arthur’s hands, throwing it at a particularly unlucky swan. The bird flapped his wings in outrage and paddled away, and his peers looked at Arthur and Rhaegar beseechingly, as if hoping that they mend their rift.

“How dare you, Arthur,” Rhaegar snarled, forcing Arthur to look him directly in the eyes. Arthur was a large man, a full head taller than even Rhaegar’s lean height, but as he looked down to Rhaegar, his own violet eyes meeting Rhaegar’s imperial irises, he felt as small as the tiniest rat against Balerion the Black Dread. “Does my love truly mean so little to you?”

“So little?” Arthur echoed incredulously. “I loved you more than life itself, and you tell me you mean to marry someone else. What am I supposed to think, seeing how easily you throw it all away?”

“You’re supposed to understand that I don’t have a choice,” hissed Rhaegar angrily. He grabbed Arthur’s gauntlets with his hands, squeezing his fingers into the engraved metal. “You’re supposed to realize that this is my duty to the Realm!”

“Then do your duty, Your Grace,” Arthur said, hurt. He knew that the Rhaegar was in the right, of course, but that cold fact didn’t make the idea of standing guard outside Rhaegar’s chambers as Rhaegar consummated his marriage any easier.

“Do you truly think I never entertained the notion of running to the Free Cities with you, Arthur?” Rhaegar asked. “Leaving my mad father to his kingdom and being happy with someone I love?” He shook his head sadly. “Would you really forsake your vows or abandon your duty so easily?”

“Nothing about this is easy,” Arthur returned curtly. “Though it appears that I am the only one suffering any sort of difficulty.”

“This need not be the end, Arthur,” Rhaegar pleaded. “Perhaps Princess Elia will understand.”

“Because of her Dornish blood?” Arthur drawled. “I assure you, Elia is little like her wayward younger brother.”

“It is not uncommon for Kings to have…”

“Mistresses?” Arthur supplied unhelpfully, “whores?”

“I meant to say paramours,” Rhaegar muttered. “I will not apologize for loving you, Arthur, but I will not beg your forgiveness for putting the well-being of my people above my own. We knew this was written in our futures since the day we met. If I am to take the throne, I will have to marry and sire heirs.”

“Then I wish you good fortune, Rhaegar,” Arthur said stiffly. “I hope the Iron Throne makes you happy.”

“ _Happy_ ,” Rhaegar spat. “Do you want me to do what makes me happy?” he asked. At Arthur’s confused look, he grabbed the back of Arthur’s head with a leather-gloved hand and kissed him roughly.

Arthur’s eyes widened in surprise for a moment, but he instinctively wrapped an arm around Rhaegar’s waist, pulling him flush against his cold, hard armor. Rhaegar swallowed his gasp of surprise, and Arthur closed his eyes, losing himself in the feeling of Rhaegar’s lips and tongue, of the fingers running through his own silver curls. The kiss wasn’t quick and chaste like their first, back when they were young boys who barely understood their feelings for each other, nor was it slow and languid like Arthur normally preferred, taking his time to draw out his affections. No, this kiss was fiery and heated, a clash of teeth and tongues more like a duel with swords than an embrace of lovers. Rhaegar pressed himself against Arthur’s breastplate, hissing and clawing like the dragon on his sigil. Arthur lowered his hands to Rhaegar’s hips and squeezed hard enough to leave bruises, trying to convey the mixed tumult of love and frustration he felt.

The two men broke apart breathlessly after a few minutes, with Rhaegar still holding Arthur tightly. Arthur let Rhaegar’s long, silver locks flow through his armored fingers, listening to the other man brood against his chest. He watched the waters of the God’s Eye ebb and flow, the ripples of disturbances of the placid surface scattering and decaying into nothingness. He watched the reflections of the sun and the leaves and the trees shiver and blur as the waves peaked and troughed. For the first time, he felt the maelstrom of his thoughts clear, and he was left with a contented albeit slightly guilty peace.

“I should apologize for my words, and my behavior,” Arthur said regretfully after a moment. “It was ill done.” He paused for a moment, finding the right words, and he looked down to see Rhaegar staring up at him thoughtfully with soft violet eyes. “I understand that you must put your duty ahead of your happiness, and you are the best man I know for it.”

“That does not give me the right to use your love because I cannot bear to give you up,” Rhaegar returned, turning to look over the God’s Eye. “I can only hope that you find someone who gives you near as much joy as you have given me all these years.”

“An array of butchers’ knives where once I had Dawn,” Arthur scoffed, the words bitter on the tip of his tongue.

“Who can say for certainty what providence intends for us?” Rhaegar laughed quietly. “Mayhaps there is a maiden riding for Harrenhal right now who is destined to be honored with the heart of the Sword of the Morning.”

“I am a knight of the King’s Guard, Rhaegar,” Arthur protested, yet still holding to Rhaegar’s embrace. “I swore a sacred vow…”

“You would not be the first of your order to fall in love, Arthur,” Rhaegar reminded him. “What is the name of Lewyn’s girl, again?”

“Hollis,” Arthur said, shaking his head slightly in disapproval. “And he should know better than to test his vows so. Love is-”

“-the death of duty?” Rhaegar finished with a quirk of his lips. “Easy words for those who’ve never known what we have. And I know you will find love, Arthur. With someone better than me. Someone wise enough to never let you go.”

The two men broke apart slowly, as the sun set over the waters of the God’s Eye, tingeing the surface blues and greens with yellows and oranges.

“You are still my closest friend in this damned world. I hope you know that, Arthur,” Rhaegar said quietly, looking imploringly into Arthur’s eyes. Arthur couldn’t see a trace of deception in those amethyst orbs, and he tried to tamper down his sadness. He clasped Rhaegar’s outstretched hand tightly with his own.

“Until the end of my days,” Ser Arthur Dayne swore to his King, and to his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo…..
> 
> First of all, this is a bit more angsty of a chapter than I'd originally planned. The angst gets dialed back later - I like to think this chapter ends on a rather hopeful not, personally.
> 
> I chose to have Arthur and Rhaegar coming out of a romantic relationship for a few reasons. Firstly, its a nod by the user 'aceofhearts88', who's works are really good and worthy of you reading them. Secondly, I had a problem with Arthur being too, well, perfect. I'm not going out of my way to bash anyone (except Aerys lol) but characters like Rhaegar, Lyanna, JonCon, etc... are all flawed human characters (or at least, my best attempts at flawed, human characters). But Arthur is too perfect. He's loved by everyone and doesn't do anything selfish that hurts anyone... For as important as Arthur is in this story, and of course he's important, he's Arthur Fucking Dayne, he didn't have any dimensions other than "I'm the best at everything" in my original writing of this chapter. So I figured I'd add a little heartbreak to his character - for all his fame and renown, he's doomed to pine from afar. Ehh… I like it, but your mileage may vary. Admittedly, this relationship is not that important to the plot, but I think it makes his interactions with other important characters interesting. 
> 
> I changed up the backstories of some of the characters to better fit the flow of this fanfic. JonCon is the most glaring example, but there are a few that you might notice. None of them are that major. Some these changes center around Arthur - I wanted him to be torn between being a Dorne and King's Landing. Maybe that will come into play later?? But there are other elements like the Defiance at Duskendale that I fudged. Hopefully those aren't deal-breakers lol.
> 
> I'm jumping the shark as far as Hightower's squire... yeah, that's probably gonna be one of the more ridiculous parts of this fanfic.
> 
> For any who are curious, the relative ages of Rhaegar and his friends in this story are:  
> Oswell Whent - 39-40 years old  
> Rhaegar, Jon, Arthur - early 20's  
> Monford, Miles, Richard - 18-20  
> Aurane - 12ish
> 
> I tend to visualize Arthur Dayne as looking a lot like Rhaegar - silver hair, purple eyes, etc... - but the user 'dhazellouise' has a few works with some photoshopped visuals for different characters. Her version of Arthur Dayne is... well... holy shit it's definitely Arthur Dayne. Totally worth checking out.
> 
>  
> 
> On the next chapter: Ned reunites with his siblings after years in the Eyrie.


	2. Eddard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolves of Spring

 

Eddard Stark had been a ward of the Eyrie, for near eight years, having left his home of Winterfell when he only ten years old. The Lord of the Eyrie, Jon Arryn, had been a second father to him, raising him along with his nephew Elbert Arryn and his other ward, Robert Baratheon of Storm’s End. Lord Arryn had welcomed Eddard to the falcons’ court with open arms, teaching him the ways of the Valemen and the history of their people.

The very first lesson Jon Arryn ever gave him was about the High Road, the main route from the King’s Road up to the Eyrie. Eddard had travelled it with an escort of several of his father’s bannermen when he first arrived, and it had been among the most harrowing experiences of his life. Eddard could remember being unable to sleep as Hothar Umber and his men kept watch, feeling as if there were a thousand eyes upon him, Mountain Men eyeing him like they would a prize pig to carve up. Lord Arryn had later told him and Robert that the High Road was the most dangerous road in the Seven Kingdoms, that the various clans that called the Mountains of the Moon made short work of any poor soul who had the misfortune of walking through their domain. Lord Arryn only travelled the road with a retinue of Knights of the Vale to send prospective bandits running with their tails between their legs.

All of that security was well and good, but once they reached the King’s Road, Eddard realized the drawback of a large, heavily armed party – by the Old Gods and the New was it slow!

Eddard rode with Lord Arryn, Elbert and Robert near the front of the party. Lord Arryn was deep in conversation with the Lord of Runestone, Bronze Yohn Royce. Even now, the Lord of Runestone amazed Eddard with his heavy bronze armor engraved with the runes of the First Men. Behind Royce rode the Redforts and the Waynwoods and several dozen other noble Houses of the Vale. It was seemingly a small army that rode down the High Road, and unfortunately for Eddard they rode at the half the pace as a well-drilled legion marching to war.

 _This tourney_ , Eddard mused, _Gods this tourney must be quite the endeavor_. He looked back at the long column of eager knights and nobles and imagined every Kingdom save the North sending this many people. _What must Harrenhal be, to merit this extravagance?_ Eddard thought, frowning like he was wont to do on more than a rare occasion.

“Gods, Ned,” a voice like a storm crashing rumbled besides him. “Your Old Gods wouldn’t strike you down if you smiled for a change, I hope.” Robert Baratheon had a large grin on his stubbled face as he rode up next to Eddard. “From your frown I would think that we rode for a funeral, not a tourney!”

“Never one for festivities, were you, Ned,” Jon Arryn laughed, though his voice was filled with a fatherly fondness. “These two scoundrels haven’t ceased about Harrenhal for the last few moons,” he said, gesturing to Robert and Elbert as the latter darted back to where his jousting armor and lances were kept, checking every strap and buckle. The newly knighted heir to the Eyrie and the Vale had dreams of the glory of the falconknights of old, Eddard knew, and he hoped that success in the lists of the Tourney at Harrenhal would prove the merits of his spurs.

“I don’t believe there is much time for fun up North, Uncle,” Elbert laughed, trotting up to them. He had the faint beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip, much like Ned would have had he not passed a razor over the skin of his face diligently. “Ned’s countrymen have more pressing needs… like surviving the summer snows.”

“Summer snows!” Robert laughed, still amazed by the concept of snow itself, let alone the fact that regular flurries covered the vast land of the North in the soft white flakes even in the warm years of summer. “No wonder you came down South. Even the chilliest tower of the Eyrie must be downright clement compared to that frozen castle of yours!”

“I wouldn’t say _all_ Northmen, Rob,” Elbert said, looking back to where the Redforts of the Redfort rode with dignity. “Young Domeric is always rather enjoyable company,” he said of Lord Horton’s squire. Domeric Bolton was the son of the Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton, and by all accounts was well-loved and charming. It was difficult for Eddard not to feel jealous of the boy at times, even though Domeric was as young as Benjen and Eddard would be nineteen soon.

“I don’t hate fun… I just can’t help but wonder to the expense, Lord Arryn,” Eddard grumbled. “Even Lord Lannister’s tourney in Lannisport paled in comparison to this…” he trailed off, searching for the right words as Robert and Elbert roared with laughter at his put-out expression. “I don’t hate fun!” Eddard protested moodily. _I don’t…_ he thought.

“You have the right of it, Ned,” Lord Arryn whispered to him conspiratorially. “There is something I mislike about this entire affair. I have heard that His Grace King Aerys intends to make an appearance.” Eddard shivered with apprehension; there were rumors of the King’s madness, whispers that he burnt people alive on a whim. Eddard knew that his father had deeper ambitions for his family – sending him to the Eyrie to meet the next Lords Paramount of the Stormlands and the Vale, possibly even tying the Starks to the Baratheons through marriage… Eddard knew that his father hoped to bulwark their House and that could only mean one thing.

War.

Eddard closed his eyes and shook his head, casting those dark thoughts away. Perhaps Robert was right about him – even as they rode to the biggest celebration in years he couldn’t help but be grim and morbid. Eddard knew he could probably afford to loosen up and have fun, but there was an ill sense of foreboding in his heart. He looked up to Lord Arryn, who smiled knowingly, his eyes wrinkling at the corners with a tinge of sadness.

“You have always had more sense than these two ruffians, Ned,” Lord Arryn said fondly, ruffling Eddard’s hair. “Keep that quality, it will serve you finer than a hundred lances or warhammers. Keep your wits about you when we reach this damnable tourney, Ned. Mayhaps the King means to have all his lords affirm their loyalty to him, but as to why he would feel the need _now…_ Something ill is afoot… I feel it in my bones.”

“I will, Lord Arryn,” Eddard said resolutely.  

“But Ned,” Lord Arryn said suddenly, causing Eddard to snap his head to look the man in the eyes. “You are a young man yet. I suspect deeper machinations behind this grand affair at Harrenhal, but a tourney’s a tourney. Eat, drink and be happy! Find your siblings and make merry with your friends! Meet a beautiful woman and fall in love!” He pulled Ned closer and lowered his voice. “You’re not like Robert, Ned. You’ve a hundred thoughts in that head of yours, and I know that you would prefer a solitary quietude than this sort of raucous celebration. Even still, there will be time aplenty for brooding when you’re old and wrinkled like I.”

“You’ll outlive us all, Lord Arryn,” Eddard said dryly.

“Ha! You say that, but I fear Robert will drive me to an early grave,” Jon laughed. “I thank the Gods that I have you to keep at least a few hairs on my head from turning white. But I worry for you, Ned. You take your House’s words too seriously. Yes, _Winter is Coming,_ but until it comes, there is time yet for you to enjoy what this world has to offer a young man with your standing.”

Eddard looked down at his horse, watching the animal whinny and trot along the King’s Road as he weighed his foster father’s words. Robert had always had a similar, if slightly less sophisticated, perspective. Even when they were boys Robert was always the one dragging a brooding, pouting Eddard across the Eyrie for various adventures of rather dubious prudence.

“I recall you were far less enthusiastic about our recklessness when we tried to find falcon eggs,” Eddard muttered dryly, not actually intending for the Lord of the Eyrie to hear that remark. From the older man’s derisive snort, Eddard realized that he’d spoken louder than he’d intended.

“Yes, but there’s a difference between enjoying the company of those who you love and climbing trees to sneak unwarranted glances at innocent maidens,” Lord Arryn said with a side-eye.

“I didn’t… We weren’t…” Eddard sputtered, his face burning in mortification. “ _I_ truly wanted falcon eggs!” he protested.

“Somehow, I fear that is what worries me the most.” Lord Arryn shook his head, though his shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Not a wayward bone in your body, is there, Ned?” His hard, blue eyes bored into Eddard’s head for a moment before he gestured with his head for Eddard to rejoin Robert and Elbert, who were in a heated discussion over the comparative merits of the melee and the tilt. Eddard was very familiar with this argument – he couldn’t count the number of times those two had tried to sway him over to their side. Elbert was as mad for the lance as Robert was for his warhammer, and neither would hear from the other that their chosen weapon was inferior.

“What sort of prize is a few flowers?” Robert scoffed as Eddard drew near. “Can you imagine, Ned? Facing off against the greatest knights in the Seven Kingdoms for a rose or two? Are we girls or warriors?”

“Come off it, Rob,” Elbert said dismissively, turning to Eddard. “At least we get the chance to test our lances against those greatest knights. Who enters the melee? Common ruffians and men too poor to own a horse.” He flashed Robert a mischievous grin. “Or too poor riders altogether!”

Eddard shook his head in disapproval. Elbert was the finest rider of the three by far, and not a day went by that he didn’t take the opportunity to remind Eddard and Robert of the near hundred races in which he’d bested them.

And there were few easier ways to anger the Lord of Storm’s End then by questioning his martial prowess.

“Oi!” Robert said, scandalized. “I could ride circles around you, Arryn!”

“Is that because of ability, or because you can’t ride in a straight line?” Elbert taunted. “You would need a Dothraki arakh instead of a lance!”

“We’ll see how well you ride with the spike of my warhammer in your skull!” Robert roared, outraged. His face turned beet red at Elbert’s laughter, and Eddard resignedly knew he needed to intervene.

“You would have to catch me first, so I shouldn’t worry too greatly.”

“I had assumed that sending you to different competitions would keep you from killing each other,” Eddard said, before a fight could break out. _Lord Arryn was right_ , Eddard thought. _These two would send anyone to an early grave._ “Perhaps we should have sent you to two different tourneys?”

“Bah! You must agree with me, Ned,” Robert scoffed, slinging a large, muscled arm around Eddard’s shoulders. “A proper Northman like you would appreciate a true contest of strength and steel! None of those lordlings prancing about with wooden sticks!”

“They have enough wildlings in the North as it is,” Elbert laughed. “I rather think Ned would prefer the company of civilized men over barbarians! Tell me Ned,” he asked, “which would you enter, given the choice? Would you rather test your lance against Ser Arthur Dayne or - ”

“Or test your sword against Bronze Yohn Royce?” Robert cut him off, knowing how much Eddard admired the stoic Lord of Runestone.

 _Neither,_ Eddard thought, privately wishing he didn’t have to bother with the loud, public extravagance of a giant tourney. The idea of competing with all the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms on him didn’t rill him with a nervous energy like it did Elbert, and the feel of clashing steel against another man didn’t make his blood sing like Robert had once said it did for him. Robert had called the rush of bloody combat _the closest thing a man can get to the feel of a woman around his cock_ , but Eddard always thought martial contests of violence should be reserved for the defense of honor and family, not the pursuit of vanity. Even thinking on the subject made Eddard’s stomach curl, and he wanted to find some quiet place to hide away from everything.

Eddard didn’t say that, however. He didn’t need them to go on again about how he hated fun. “Does Lord Royce truly intend to enter the melee?” he asked instead.

“I fail to see why not,” Robert said dismissively. He turned around and hollered at the top of his lunge, “Oi Royce! I’ll ring your head in that bronze of yours in the melee!”

Everyone in the party stopped to stare at them, and Eddard smacked his forehead in exasperation, a gesture echoed by his foster father as Lord Yohn Royce looked at Robert’s swagger and cocky grin with mild disapproval.

“I fear not, Lord Baratheon,” Royce grumbled. Robert puffed his chest proudly at the honorific for a moment before he realized what Royce had said and deflated. “I intend to take my lance to the tilt instead.”

“But…” Robert sputtered. “You fought in the melee at the Coldwater Burn!”

“There was no joust in that tourney, Robert,” Elbert reminded him. “No true knight would choose the melee over the joust.” He turned to Lord Royce. “May the Warrior guide out lances then, my Lord, so that one of us brings honor and glory to the Vale.” Lord Royce nodded curtly in agreement, levelling Robert one last frown of disapproval before turning back to Lord Arryn.

“But why?” Robert asked in frustration.

“Which brings more glory,” Elbert patiently explained, as one would do to a child. Eddard didn’t much dispute this characterization of Robert Baratheon at the moment. “Unhorsing Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne, or bashing some common hedge knight over the head?”

“Those knights would face me in the melee had they any courage,” Robert sneered.

“Courage notwithstanding, Ser Arthur Dayne would not only best you with his eyes closed, he would shove that white sword of his so far up your arse that your mouth would glow,” Elbert laughed.

“Then he should prove it!” Robert shouted, his face straining a frightening purple.

“But why would he when there is a far better prize for the winner of the joust?” Elbert asked.

“It’s just a few flowers! The winner of the melee gets a fat purse of gold.”

“Firstly, the crown of Love and Beauty is far more than _just_ _a few flowers_ , Robert,” Elbert said, shaking his head in disapproval. He muttered something that sounded like _bloody barbarians_ before continuing. “And secondly, the winnings come from ransoming your foe’s armor and horse. There needn’t be a large purse at the end – the winner earns enough by far.”

“But if you lose, you lose your armor, and you have to purchase it back,” Eddard pointed out. Robert crowed victoriously as Eddard gestured meaningfully to the cart where Elbert’s blue-and-white jousting armor was carefully stowed.

“And if you lose the melee, you probably get struck dumb,” Elbert shot back.

“I do not intend to lose the melee, so it matters little,” Robert huffed. “You, on the other hand… I would bet a dozen casks of wine that the first day finds you on your back.” Eddard knew Robert’s comment had struck a nerve from the way Elbert angrily flushed.

“If you did get struck dumb, how would we tell?” Elbert sneered.

“Will you two please cease with this?” Eddard burst out in frustration. He rubbed his temples

“Ned, you would agree with me, right?” Robert pleaded, refusing to let Elbert win. “You would enter the melee, wouldn’t you?”

“Robert, I am not a knight,” Eddard reminded him. “Only knights can enter this tourney, and I have no desire to hit squires.”

“You could have been a knight,” Robert said. Eddard thought that was rather easy for Robert to say. He’d been knighted By Lord Marq Grafton for winning a melee in Gulltown. Eddard had never sought out that sort of opportunity, preferring to observe Lord Arryn hold court in the Eyrie. Eddard hoped to hold a keep of his own in the North one day, to start a noble House of his own as one of his elder brother’s loyal vassals. He didn’t need knighthood as much as he did experience keeping the King’s Peace and carrying out His Justice.

Robert scoffed when Eddard told him such.

“Why’re you in such a rush to get old, Ned? We could feast and fight and fuck our way through the Seven Kingdoms and beyond!”

Eddard frowned. “You know that was never the life for me, Robert.”

“By the Gods, _you_ should have been the Lord Paramount and I the second son!” Robert’s laugh was like thunder. “The realm would be better for it, and what I wouldn’t give for a few years as a hedge knight or an Essosi sellsword.”

“What is a tourney compared to a castle and a family of your own?” Eddard asked again. “And besides, I am no knight either way.”

“Bah! It was your damned stubbornness, nothing more,” Robert scoffed, not answering the question. “Royce would have knighted ye, Ned! Why’d you refuse your spurs?”

Eddard shook his head. “I keep the Old Gods of the First Men. Knighthood is an Andal Tradition under the Seven. How can I be charged in the name of Gods I do not hold?”

“As if Rob thinks much of his oaths to the Warrior, the Father, the Mother, and the Maid,” Elbert scoffed. “Anyways, Is your elder brother not a knight?”

 _Brandon never thought much of our Gods either_ , Eddard thought grimly. Brandon was everything Eddard knew he wasn’t: Dashing where Eddard was plain, charming where Eddard was shy. He had been knighted in Barrowtown and had a squire of his own now – Lord Glover’s nephew Ethan. The last Eddard saw of his brother, Brandon was wild and hot-blooded, and Eddard doubted the years had taught him piety. What use had Brandon for Gods of any fashion, when they’d seen fit to bless him since birth?

When Eddard had left for the Eyrie, his father told him to hold onto his faith. The Old Gods of the First Men and the Children of the Forest would never abandon him in the South, would remind him that he was first and foremost a Stark of Winterfell. Eddard hadn’t forgotten that lesson, holding to the Godswood of the Eyrie and remembering the great weirwood Heart Tree in Winterfell.

“I believe Brandon plans to enter the lists,” Eddard said. He misliked the way his voice sounded a touch hollow, for envy was never a good quality for an honorable man.

“Will you cheer my name when I unhorse him, Ned?” Elbert jested.

“Perhaps he should give you his favor like another woman too?” Robert said. “The Gods know he’d rather sit with them while the men compete!”

“Forgive me if I haven’t been such pleasant company, merely because I see more to life than drinking and playing at war,” Eddard said coldly, biting the inside of his cheek and turning away. Robert’s remark was made in good humor, but it stung all the same. Robert was his best friend in the world, but sometimes Eddard wondered if Robert would have been better suited to meet someone like Brandon.

Robert rode up alongside him apologetically. “Forgive me, Ned,” he said with contrition, his face twisting to that sorry look he got whenever he and Ned quarreled. “That may have been ill done on my part. I shouldn’t have implied…”

“It’s fine,” Eddard muttered, but Robert cut him off.

“I’ll make it up to you somehow, Ned. Tell me what I can do. I couldn’t bear for you to be angry with me.”

“Leave it, Robert,” Eddard said, still stung though his lips quirked with a faint smile at Robert’s pitiful look. Robert say that Eddard’s resolve to be miserable was waning and pressed his advantage.

“ _Ohhhh Neeeeddd! Forgive meeeeeeeee!”_ Robert sang, decidedly _not_ letting the matter lie. His deep bass tones and his utter inability to hold a tune pounded Eddard’s ears, and Eddard had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. Robert Baratheon had sung many a tune while drunk, for no reason other than that one needed to be inebriated down to their boots to think his voice was anything remotely approaching musical. Robert slung an arm around Eddard’s shoulders and belted out another verse. “ _I would give you anythiiing! I would go to any plaaaaace! To see just one smiiiiile on that frozen faaaaaace!”_

“Alright, alright,” Eddard laughed, shoving the Stormlord away. “Gods be good, I forgive you. Just never sing again!” Robert made to say something, to protest Eddard’s condemnation of his musical ability, but thought better of it.

“There is something yet for you at this tourney, Ned,” Robert said instead. “Your family will be there, right? Your brothers and your sister?” Eddard nodded silently. “Well? You must be excited to see them, then! More than I was to see my own brother, at least,” he laughed.

Eddard could remember when Robert sailed back to Storm’s End a few years ago, after the tragic deaths of his mother and father at sea. Eddard had elected to sail with him – he’d lost his own mother a year before he came to the Eyrie, and he _knew_ the incomprehensible grief of a child losing their parent. A part of him also yearned to see the Stormlands; Robert had told him stories of the legendary castle of Storm’s End and the dense, rainy forests and marshes it oversaw. According to legend, Storm’s End was built by Bran the Builder, the man who raised Winterfell in the heart of the North. Eddard was eager to see the impenetrable castle himself just as his ancestor had done.

What Eddard had not thought to expect was the awkwardness of meeting Robert’s younger brothers, Stannis and Renly. Renly had been a boy of three at the time, and Robert had little interest in the care of his littlest brother – a trait Eddard wished he could say Robert would outgrow. Stannis, thought, was a boy not much younger than he, and the middle Baratheon was emotionless and quiet. Eddard had half expected Stannis to be as boisterous and vibrant as Robert, but the sudden tragedy of the deaths of Lord and Lady Baratheon seemed to rob the boy of his energy. Stannis was easily the one most like Eddard, but Robert failed to see it that way. While Robert had found a fast friendship with Eddard, he and Stannis couldn’t be in the same room without arguing.

They handled grief in different ways, Eddard had thought, much like him and Brandon when Lyarra Stark had passed. Lyanna and Benjen were too young to truly understand, but Eddard and Brandon truly bore the pain of losing their mother. Brandon was much like Robert, throwing himself into a hundred brawls and taking his weapon of choice to every tree and stone with the misfortune to find their way in his path. Brandon had ridden into the Wolfswood after their mother was interred in the Godswood, and he didn’t return for a fortnight. Eddard, though, went numb with disbelief, much like Stannis. He would have given the Baratheon boy some advice or comforting words, but he realized that the last person Stannis wished to speak with was the foster brother Robert loved better than his true ones.

Eddard frowned, hoping that Robert and Stannis could reconcile now that they were adults.

“Ned!” Robert hollered, shaking Eddard’s head with a big, meaty hand. Eddard winced at the volume of his voice. “Gods, one day you’ll get so lost in that head of yours that you’ll never come out!”

“I was merely thinking of the circumstances by which I left Winterfell,” Eddard lied, knowing that Robert would not broker any discussion of his younger brothers. “I did not leave my siblings in our happiest hour, you know. But you have the right of it, I am eager to see them again.” Eddard gave Robert a side-eye, grinning as the other seemed barely able to contain himself. “I’m sure you want to hear all about Bran and Ben.”

“Of course,” Robert coughed, trying his best not to say anything that anger Eddard again. “Tell me about your brothers.” Eddard was almost flattered by the way the blunt-as-a-hammer Robert Baratheon wore the unfamiliar cloak or _tact_ and decided to spare him before Robert exploded.

“Or perhaps there’s someone else I could talk about?” Eddard asked slyly.

“The Lady Lyanna?” Robert burst, subtlety forgotten. “Tell me, Ned, I beg it of you. What is she like? What should I say when I see her?” There was a gleam in his electric blue eyes that made Eddard chuckle slightly. Eddard’s father had sent a portrait of Lyanna last year, and though Eddard was more than happy to see how much his sister had grown, he also understood why Lord Stark sent that picture and not one of Brandon or Benjen. From the way Robert’s jaw dropped at the sight of Lyanna, clad in Southron silks and powders that knowing Lyanna must have taken _moons_ to pit her in, Eddard figured the plan had worked.

“You’ll learn soon enough, Robert,” Eddard grinned. “Lyanna was near as wild as Brandon when we were children, but now she’s a maiden flowered. I know not what to expect either.”

“But surely there is _something_ you can tell me, Ned?” Robert pleaded. Eddard had to stifle a laugh at the big, strong _Robert Baratheon_ nervous over a woman. “Gods, there must be half a hundred men in Harrenhal with their eye on her!”

“Are you worried that Northerners shouldn’t find your charm as irresistible as the women of the Vale?” Eddard asked cheekily, laughing at the put-out expression on Robert’s face.

“Of course not!” Robert said haughtily. “You should know how no maiden can resist my charm.”

“You will find more competition here, though,” Eddard pointed out. He couldn’t help but add, “perhaps someone else intends to ask my father for my sister’s hand.”

“Oi! Who’s laid hands on my woman!” Robert asked angrily

“Robert… nobody has laid a hand… _Your woman_?” Eddard asked, frowning slightly. The Lyanna he knew would never submit to being owned by someone, and he hoped that Robert could bend in the face of such a headstrong, rowdy girl.

“She’ll be mine soon enough. Woe to the bastard dares to steal her from me,” Robert scoffed. Robert had always been stubborn, Eddard knew, and he could be covetous and possessive. Eddard couldn’t count how many scuffles Robert had started as a child because someone or another had taken some toy soldier or wooden sword of his. The _possession_ , as it were, hardly mattered. It was Robert’s pride that was the issue. He couldn’t abide anyone with designs on what was his.

No, that attitude would not serve Robert well, Eddard knew it.

“Careful, Robert,” Eddard warned. “If you mean to win my sister over, you’d be wise to remember your manners.”

“I have the best manners!” Robert said, puffing out his chest.

“I merely would suggest that you keep away from the ale and wine,” Eddard said, though from the way Robert’s shoulders sagged it wasn’t likely.

“I shall dance with her and offer flowers… I promise you, Ned, she’ll be falling over me in no time!”

“I hope so, my friend,” Eddard said, and he genuinely meant it. Robert wasn’t perfect, but he was on of the best men Eddard knew, and he was _sure_ that Lyanna would like him.

“And you, Ned?” Robert pried. “Perhaps a woman will do what none in the Vale could and thaw your frozen heart!”

“ _Thaw your frozen heart_?” Eddard echoed, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “You fall in love and you’ve already started writing poems!”

“But it is a possibility?” Robert asked.

Eddard hadn’t given the idea much thought, to be honest. He always figured he would wait until he had a keep of his own before seeking a wife. Some of Lord Arryn’s vassals had made offers, but Eddard had never sought the company of the fairer sex as much as Robert had.

“Come now, Ned” Robert boomed. “You should take the opportunity to sow your wild oats!”

“I would never dare dishonor a lady, Robert,” Eddard said sternly.

“Then don’t find a lady,” Robert said simply, laughing. “There will be a hundred wenches and trust me, Ned, they would consider it an honor to deflower you!”

Surprisingly, Eddard wasn’t convinced. Robert had always had a great appetite in everything he did, and Eddard didn’t think he realized how it looked to sire bastards around the realm. He shook his head in disapproval, remembering little Mya Stone. There was a reason why the Lord of Runestone had a distaste for Robert, and it had everything to do with him siring Mya on a commoner serving Royce’s uncle cousin in the Gates of the Moon. Robert was not the worst father Eddard had ever seen, but he quickly lost interest in the mother, and the entire incident left a sour taste in Eddard’s mouth.

Eddard wanted to press the issue, but he and Lord Arryn had lectured Robert enough on the matter, and all Eddard could hope for was that Robert would behave in Harrenhal. Because as the darkness of night overtook the sky, Eddard couldn’t help but feel that they rode towards some sort of reckoning.

 

 

Eddard raced up the hill after Robert, eagerness wrapping around his heart as he rode up the stony trail. The stones and pebbles flew from his young mare’s hooves as she bounded over the beaten road stones. The towers of Harrenhal rose in the distance, framed around Robert like the prongs on the antlers crowning a majestic stag. The young Stormlord sat atop his horse and stared out to the horizon, and it was only when Eddard reached the hill-top that he realized what had so dramatically enraptured his best friend.

The plains around Harrenhal were covered as far as the eye could see by camps and fires and colored tents and proud banners waving in the night’s breeze. Before Eddard was the entire realm, from the purple grapes of the House Redwyne of the island of the Arbor to the twin blue towers of the House Frey of the Crossing to the bright red sun of the House Martell of Sunspear. Eddard strained his eyes as he tried to identify as many noble houses as he could. Lord Arryn had taught him all he knew about the heraldry of the Vale, and Eddard had been diligent in his studies of his own homeland, but his knowledge of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms was far less thorough. Eddard saw prickled porcupines and proud eagles, tripled spirals and leaping swordfish. There were even a few that Eddard couldn’t identify – a coat of arms with a mace and dagger and a crest with a Morningstar flail. They were more likely than not landed knights, Eddard thought, for their sigils indicated families raised though loyalty in times of violence and strife.

A red banner with a white weirwood on a shield of black caught Eddard’s eye, and he surmised that it must herald the House Blackwood of the Raventree Hall. He recalled his father taking him and Brandon into the Wolfswood to teach them of the old Kings in the North, before Aegon and his sisters brought the wolves of Winterfell to heel. The Wolfswood had long ago been known as the Blackwood for the way its dense foliage blocked out the sun, and it was home to one of the many petty kings who carved out portions of the North to call their own. These Blackwood Kings were the first to fall when the first Brandon Stark began the century-long conquest of the North that would see the Starks as the true Kings of Winter. To mark their dominion of all the lands from the Wall to the Neck, the Starks build their own castle in the heart of the North and banished the Blackwoods to the South, taking the vast forests the Blackwoods called their own and renaming it after the direwolves that graced their banners.

That was thousands of years ago, though, Eddard thought. The Starks had long since surrendered their crown of iron and bronze, and Eddard wondered if the Blackwoods ever forgot the cause of their exile. Eddard’s father had warned him that family grudges could run through blood, and fathers passed more than hair and eyes to their sons. What Eddard knew of the Blackwoods now was their grudge to the death with their rivals in the Riverlands: the Brakens of Stone Hedge. If there was any sure method of calming the tensions between two families, it hadn’t been tried with the Blackwoods and the Brackens, Eddard thought. The hatred between the red stallions of Stone Hedge and the men of Raventree Hall was famous even in the North and in the Vale. Perhaps the Blackwoods were just a quarrelsome family, Eddard wondered, for they seemed adept at making enemies. Either way, Eddard couldn’t see either the Red Stallion of Bracken or his own Direwolf of Stark anywhere near the Blackwood tent, and perhaps that was for the best.

“Gods Ned,” Robert breathed, speechless for a moment. “Look at that sight.” He turned to flash Eddard a wild smile. “How many do you think there are there?”

“Lord Arryn said there might be as many as a hundred and fifty noble Houses there,” Eddard breathed. “Seven Hells, I could believe it, too.”

“This is going to be the greatest tourney of all time!” Robert exclaimed. “And I am going to win, I promise you!”

“I thought the greatest prize went to the winner of the lists,” Eddard asked.

“Bah! There’s a prize finer than any awaiting me! A winter rose more beautiful than any little flower crown!” Robert crowed. “Come on then, Ned! Let’s find her!”

“I think you should wait until the morn, Robert,” Lord Arryn suggested as the rest of the Vale party caught up. “We’ve been riding for a fortnight now, and I think a bath would be in order before you make a first impression.” It was wise advice, Eddard thought.

“And besides, Robert,” Eddard said, “You should meet your bannermen. You _are_ the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

“But…” Robert feebly protested, before he bowed his head, cowed under the combined might of both Eddard’s and Lord Arryn’s disapproving looks.

“Shall we make camp then, Lord Arryn?” Eddard asked as the other nobles started finding places to set up their tents.

“ _We_ shall make camp here about, but not you. Go to your family, Ned,” Lord Arryn said kindly. “You’ve waited long enough.” Eddard’s face brightened, and he couldn’t contain his excitement.

“Are you sure, Lord Arryn?” Eddard asked eagerly, already getting ready to set his horse to a dead sprint. With his luck the Starks would be camped on the other side of the tourney grounds, but Eddard was willing to race across Westeros if that’s what it took.

“Go on now, Ned!” Lord Arryn laughed, waving him off. “But remember what I told you and enjoy yourself! We shall see you on the morrow!”

Eddard could barely hear him, with the wind rushing past his ears as he urged his horse faster and faster.

 

 

Eddard found the Stark tent after more searching than he cared to admit. The Starks were not the only Northerners to attend the tourney, and they’d found their own area in the fields surrounding the God’s Eye. The Northmen were supposed to arrange themselves with the Stark tent in the middle, but Eddard couldn’t locate his siblings no matter how hard he tried. So, Eddard had to ride past the Glovers and Umbers and up to Jorah Mormont and his wife, Ayla Glover. The young man gave Eddard a nod as he polished the Valyrian steel sword of his house, Longclaw. Eddard gave Ayla Glover a smile, but she seemed rather upset with her husband and Eddard thought better of getting involved.

“Searching for your siblings, Stark?” Jorah asked, raising an eyebrow. He didn’t stand to attention like he would for Eddard’s lord father or to Brandon - Jeor Mormont, the former lord of Bear Island, had recently taken the Black, Eddard had heard, making Jorah the new head of his house, and lordship of Bear Island probably put Jorah on equal footing with his liege lord’s second son.

“Aye I am, Lord Mormont,” Eddard said, noting the way Jorah puffed up slightly at the honorific. “I fear I’ve had some difficulty in finding our family’s banner.” He looked around, as if to make his point. Above him flew the green banner with the bear of House Mormont. They were surrounded by the bear of House Umber, the axes of House Dustin, the oars of House Watermen… seemingly everyone in the North save the Starks of Winterfell.

“I think they are still raising their tent,” Jorah chuckled, nodding his head in their direction.

“Even still?” Eddard asked incredulously. “Everyone else seems to have settled in without difficulty.”

“What was it my father called it… wolf’s blood in the Stark veins?” Jorah laughed. “Last I checked they were still arguing.”

Of the four of them – Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, and Benjen – Eddard had always been the quietest and most reserved. Brandon and Lyanna were wild as feral wolves and the Gods only knew how adept Benjen had become at aggravating his sister since Eddard had last seen them.

“My thanks, Lord Mormont,” Eddard said simply. _Gods I hope they haven’t caused too much trouble,_ he thought, racing in the direction Jorah pointed.

As he rode, Eddard thought on the last time he’d seen his siblings. Brandon had been two and ten, and he’d already been acting like a man, getting mountains of praise from Ser Rodrick for his swordsmanship and accompanying their lord father to executions. He already looked the perfect heir. Lyanna was merely a girl of seven last Eddard had seen her in person. She was short and skinny, with scabbed knees and ratty trousers and a crooked smile that never failed to get her everything she wanted. And Benjen was a boy of six who would follow his sister to the ends of the known world and beyond.

Eddard wondered if they had changed. He’d known that Lyanna had grown – the portrait she’d sent to the Eyrie had not shown the unruly girl he’d known but a young woman, and a quite beautiful one too if Robert’s reaction was to be believed. And Benjen? _Gods he must be fifteen now_ , Eddard thought. Eddard remembered how desperately he looked up to Brandon, thinking that twelve was impossibly mature. And now Benjen was _fifteen_.

Eddard felt a pang in his heart as he thought about how much he’d missed. Would Benjen even recognize him? Would Brandon welcome him in, or would he scoff and call Eddard a Southron? And would Lyanna still laugh loudly and climb his back like she did with he and Brandon as a child or was she now the perfect little lady that she looked in the portrait.

That last one bothered Eddard for some reason. Lyanna had been meticulously dressed and posed, with winter roses in her elegantly braided hair and a fancy Southron dress with more frills than he could count. She’d worn powder on her face and if she wasn’t so skinny already Eddard would strongly suspect she’d been squeezed into a corset. The look on her face was proper and unobjectionable. It was perfect.

 _It was terrible_.

Eddard had stared at the portrait as much as Robert had, but instead of awe he felt a vague uneasiness. The Lyanna he remembered had been wild, tumbling hair and ratty trousers and a crooked smile that made her eyes glint like steel. Lyanna had shouted and swore and laughed from the belly like drunken men telling bawdy tales around a fire. Lyanna had been dirty nails and callouses on her fingertips. No, what Eddard had seen in those brushstrokes on canvases was not his little sister, but rather some other woman, a woman who would love nothing more than to marry the man her father picked, even if he was on the other side of the Realm.

Perhaps, then, it should have been of some comfort that Eddard knew he found his family by the sound of a rather irate young woman shouting at her brother.

“Bran, you moron! That is the wrong bleeding end!”

Eddard pulled the reins of his mare so hard she whinnied in protest, and he gave her an apologetic rub on the neck.

“If you think you can do so much better, you try,” a much deeper voice snapped back. Eddard trotted over past a circle of trees to a clearing where a man, a young woman, and a teenaged boy stood about arguing over a giant pile of cloth and large wooden dowels. He watched as the man shoved a large pole into the woman’s hands, which she promptly dropped on the ground.

Eddard paused for a moment, sliding off the side of his horse and catching on wobbly feet. A thousand greetings caught on the tip of his tongue, and he could only stare as the boy took a break from watching the other two bicker and stretched his neck.

“Gods. At least it shouldn’t be too difficult to clean up,” the boy muttered before he noticed Eddard standing there. “Seven Hells!” he exclaimed. “ _Ned?!_ ”

The other two turned around on their heels, and Eddard finally got a good look at the three of them. Brandon was a man grown. He’d always been tall, but now there was not a hint of the boy Eddard remembered. He was clad in steel and leather and furs with a large two-handed greatsword on his back. His face, which was twisted in a frustrated glare, was adorned with a short-cropped beard and had his dark brown hair tied behind him.

Benjen had shot up like a weed in the last eight years, scrawny and covered in a patchy scruff. _Gods, Benjen must be as tall as I am_ , Eddard thought as Benjen pulled him for a tight embrace.

“Ben… Lya… Bran,” Eddard sputtered, unable to say much more. Brandon’s scowl vanished, replaced by a broad smile as he grabbed Eddard’s shoulder fondly. Eddard tried to say something else, but he was cut off by something else slamming into his side. Eddard looked down to see tumbling brown hair. The brunette who held him tight flashed him a watery smile.

Somehow, Lyanna surprised him the most.

In truth, she didn’t look exactly like the portrait. She wore a plain grey dress instead of the fancy blue one, and her hair was wild and free instead of tightly braided. There was a beauty to her, that even Eddard had to admit, but it wasn’t the refined, polished one he’d seen. She was like a blizzard, beautiful but untamable.

“Gods Ned!” she laughed when Brandon finally pulled her off of him. “Look at you!”

“You’re a proper Stark now,” Brandon said, and Eddard flushed from the approval. “I was worried your time in the Eyrie would turn you into some sort of prancing little-”

Lyanna cut him off with a punch to the shoulder. “What Bran means to say is that he’s thankful you haven’t traded your direwolf banners for falcons and moons yet.”

“Never,” Eddard said vehemently. “I… Seven Hells, I missed you all!”

“Even Bran?” Benjen asked cheekily, his voice only occasionally cracking. “The Eyrie must be dreadful if you find yourself longing for the company of this idiot.”

“Oi!” Brandon said, smacking Benjen on the back of his head. “For that you can go back to setting up the tent!” He shoved Benjen in the direction of the disorganized mess that was to be their provisions for the duration of the tourney. He turned to Eddard with a dangerous smirk. “I hope you haven’t grown to accustomed to your fancy living in the Vale. We… er… have decided upon a less refined way of living.”

“Which is a fancy way of saying he wouldn’t know his arse from a tentpole,” Lyanna groused, grabbing Eddard’s arm and pulling him along. “Come on, Ned! We have a lot of work to do before we can catch some rest.” Eddard shook his head as he followed, grinning widely.

“So, Ned,” Benjen began, trying to hold the main tentpole steady while Eddard and Brandon started pounding stakes into the ground. “You must have seen hundreds of tourneys in the Eyrie, right?” Eddard met his gaze awkwardly.

“Aye, I’ve seen quite a few,” Eddard answered. Lyanna snorted at his brief answer.

“Out with it, Ned! What else? What were they like?” she all but demanded.

“I don’t know,” Eddard huffed between strikes of his mallet. He thought back to the first tourney he attended, one Lord Arryn threw in the Eyrie that was won by his distant relative, Ser Denys Arryn. He thought of the melee in Gulltown, where Lord Marq Grafton rewarded Robert with knighthood. “They’re very…” _extravagant, boring, loud_ “…lively.” He said simply.

“I would hope so!” Brandon laughed. “Have you seen how many people old Walter Whent is hosting?”

“It feels like half the Realm is here,” Benjen echoed eagerly. “I don’t even recognize most of the sigils I saw!”

“Do you mean to enter the joust, Brandon?” Eddard asked, his eyes darting to where the horses and carts were hitched to nearby trees.

“Need you even ask?” Brandon said puffing out his chest. “I intend to _win_ the joust!”

“Will you crown me as your Queen of Love and Beauty, then?” Lyanna asked, full of an insincere sweetness.

“Perhaps if you showed some Love and Beauty from time to time,” Brandon shot back without missing a beat. “Do you mean to compete in any event, Ned?” he asked as he dodged a swat from Lyanna. Eddard wished he hadn’t – the Gods knew he didn’t need Brandon too on his case.

“I do not,” Eddard said definitively, hoping his tone would cut off the conversation.

It didn’t work.

“Why not?” Lyanna asked from under the tent canvas as she tried to shape the tent over the main pole. _“Gods Ben, how crooked is this pole? Is your head on your shoulders straight?”_ Benjen scoffed and started kicking the tentpole – which was most certainly bent to the side – and Lyanna turned back to Eddard. “Don’t you want to try your lance? I’m sure Lord Arryn would have given you jousting armor if you asked.”

“He might, but the lists aren’t for me,” Eddard said quietly. “It is enough to see all of you again.”

“I’m happy that the Eyrie hasn’t robbed you of your sweetness, Ned,” Lyanna said, patting Eddard on the cheek. “But you’re mad.” Eddard barked out a laugh at that. “I _mean_ it!” she protested, frowning. “ _I_ think the joust is perfect. Beautiful and elegant.” She paused thoughtfully. “Do you think I could joust?”

“Lya…” Brandon said warningly, driving a last stake into the ground.

“I mean it,” Lyanna insisted, grabbing the tent cover and holding it for Brandon to raise the center tentpole underneath it. “I could win the squires’ joust, I bet,” Lyanna said proudly, looking much like Brandon. “I’m the best rider in the North! And Ser Rodrick says that…”

“ _Father_ says you need to remember your courtesies, Lya, and act like a proper lady,” Brandon said sternly, cutting her off. Lyanna pouted angrily, and Eddard figured this was an argument they’d had many times before.

“From what I’ve heard, I would think Domeric Bolton would give you a challenge,” Benjen laughed as Lyanna lunged at him. Brandon had to pull the two apart, giving Eddard a shake of his head at the two scrappers.

“I mean it, Lya,” he admonished, giving her a harsh glare which she returned in full. “The last thing we want is for the rest of the Realm to think we’re all savages.”

“Since when do we care about what _Southrons_ think about us?” Lyanna spat.

“Since we two are like to marry them,” Brandon returned, groaning loudly as he raised the tent. Lyanna huffed angrily, and the two glowered and pouted.

 _“Catelyn Tully,”_ Benjen whispered to Eddard. _“Bran is still rather sour about it.”_

“I’m not _sour_ ,” Brandon snarled, baring his teeth like the wolf on his banner. Braver men than Eddard would be cowed by that look, but there was something about little brothers that made them fearless and insolent. Brandon stomped angrily to the tent to keep it braced, and Lyanna huffed on the other side.

“At least it looks like this tent won’t blow away,” Benjen remarked, though the comment fell flat. Both Brandon and Lyanna looked flat and moody, and they refused to meet each other’s eye.

“I was surprised to see this many Northmen south of the Neck,” Eddard commented offhandedly, trying to change the subject. Benjen flashed him a grateful grin as he answered.

“Aye, they’re here to keep our two wildlings from burning the South!” Benjen japed. The aforementioned wildlings seemed little amused, and a sour Brandon smacked him on the top of the head.

“You need to learn to still your tongue, Ben, else one of our father’s new bannermen would not think twice to cut it out,” Brandon said sharply. His stoic _lord’s tone_ was a little undermined by the way Benjen stuck his tongue out in protest, and Benjen yelped as Bran reached out and pinched Benjen’s tongue, as if to further his point.

Eddard was a touch alarmed though, and he said as much.

“You haven’t heard much from the North, have you, Ned,” Brandon said cautiously. Eddard shook his head – Northerners were not a talkative, forthcoming people. “The Night’s Watch… it is in pretty poor shape. There was an attack at Greyguard, one of the castles on the Wall, last year.”

“What happened?” Eddard asked curiously. His time in the Eyrie had shown him how the South viewed the Night’s Watch – as little more than a penal colony for murderers and rapers and thieves. He wondered if such a band of men could ever be trained into a reliable fighting force.

“It was a massacre,” Brandon said, shaking his head. “The Night’s Watch was caught unawares, and they were slaughtered in the Shadow Tower.”

“The wildlings are led by a turncloak,” Benjen said. “Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-The-Wall.” His voice grew with excitement as he spoke. “He leads wildlings and wargs and giants. Giants, Ned! They’re as big as four men and they ride mammoths! For true!”  

“Sit down, Ben,” Brandon said tiredly. There was a weariness to his voice, one borne of years of tireless effort. “Father had to raise his banners and we rode North against the King-Beyond-The-Wall.”

“What happened next?” Eddard asked. However poorly the Night’s Watch held the Wall, wildling bandits were no match for drilled and armed men and well-equipped Northern Lords.

“I think Roose Bolton is the one who slew Mance, though no one has seen the bastard since Bolton took him prisoner,” Brandon said. Eddard shivered, guessing what fate had befallen this King-Beyond-the-Wall. “Umber’s host defeated several of those blackfooted ones. Those giants – they’re real, by the way – they were pushed back to the mountains. Gods, though, what they did the Lord Tallhart…”

“But you won?” Eddard asked.

 “Aye, we smashed them, of course, but afterwards… Mance Rayder brought a hundred thousand men, women, and children,” Brandon mused. “The elderly and the young, the sick and the hale, they all came South.”

“What happens to them?” Eddard asked, understanding Brandon’s point.

“That is the question, isn’t it,” Brandon mused. Eddard noticed that Lyanna was listening even as she tried to feign an aloof distance. “Bolton and Umber wanted to send them back though the Wall… or over it.”

“But…” prompted Eddard.

“But the Starks of Winterfell do not stoop so low as to murder children or send them to their deaths,” Brandon agreed. “Father agreed to give them lands in the Gift,” he said. “Those who were willing to swear fealty to King would get lands and castles, and Lord Commander Qorgyle agreed in return for the taxes those new Lords would pay.”

“How many agreed?” Eddard asked. He couldn’t help the curiosity in his voice. Thenns in bronze and Hornfoots and Mountain clans, they all featured in Old Nan’s stories when Eddard was a child, and he hoped to see them one day when he returned North.

“They saw how poorly they would fare against a proper Westerosi army,” Brandon answered. “It was either that or return North of the Wall. So most of them agreed. Enough that the past nine moons have been hell as we try to keep them and the proper Lords from murdering each other.”

“Why did so many Lords come South, then?” Eddard asked, confused. “Shouldn’t they protect their lands?”

“Aye, they should,” Brandon agreed, “but there’s a difference between protecting your people and causing trouble. It’s better that they leave for some time to give Father space to settle everyone. Their men-at-arms and castellans can defend their lands well enough.”

“And what better way than a tourney for these men to release that aggression?” Eddard finished. Brandon nodded in agreement.

“Many of the women came too,” Benjen chimed in. “They hope to be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty too,” Benjen jested. “Like Lyanna!” Lyanna reached over to smack him, and Eddard felt an uncomfortable memory of an argument into which he’d rather not fall again.

“Erm… So, Lya,” Eddard coughed. “What do you think of the melee?” Her excitement for the joust reminded Eddard greatly of the gleam in Robert’s eye when he spoke of the melee. Perhaps this would be how Robert and Lyanna would find a common ground?

“The _melee_?” Lyanna echoed, scrunching her nose in disgust. _So much for that_ , Eddard thought. “The melee is for barbarians! There’s nothing elegant about bashing each other with blunted swords.”

“Ha!” Brandon laughed. “You’ve become a prissy little lady already!” Benjen had to cover his mouth to hide his laugh, and even Eddard grinned at Lyanna’s outraged protest.

“You’re the biggest barbarian of them all, Bran,” Lyanna spat, stomping her foot. “Bran!” she shrieked as Brandon picked her up. She kicked and shouted as Brandon spun her around.

“Let her down Bran,” Eddard chuckled, “lest she shout herself hoarse.”

“Aye, she needs to make a good impression with Robert Baratheon,” Benjen laughed, jumping out of the way of one of Lyanna’s kicks.

“We’ll meet your friend the stag on the morrow, won’t we,” Brandon asked contemplatively, frowning as the night grew dark. He sat down in front of the set-up for a campfire and started striking his flint, sending sparks into the kindling in the middle of the circle of stones. “Oi, Ben, Lya,” he said authoritatively as the fire caught, “there’s salted meat from our last hunt in the Karstark caravan. Fetch some, would you? I’ll cook it up.”

“Aye, we will, my Lord,” Benjen said with a cheeky salute. “We hunted it ourselves,” he said to Eddard proudly before bounding off. Lyanna made to follow him, but she stopped for a moment and turned around.

“Ned…” she said, pausing for a moment to gather her words. It was an unexpected moment of hesitation from Eddard’s usually headstrong sister, which worried him slightly. “About Robert Baratheon…”

“He’s my closest friend in the world,” Eddard said truthfully. “He’s a good man, and he’s very eager to meet you.” Lyanna tilted her head thoughtfully before responding.

“I heard…” she chewed her lip anxiously, trying to find the right words. “I heard he has a bastard daughter.”

Eddard winced, remembering Mya Stone again. He and Lord Arryn had taken Robert to task over the indiscretion, and Robert _had_ vowed to do right by the girl, but Eddard had to admit there was something he misliked about the casualness by which Robert brushed off their concerns.

“Aye, a girl in the Gates of the Moon,” Eddard admitted, not willing to lie to his sister. “Mya Stone, her name is. She must be a year old.”

“And the mother?” Lyanna asked quietly. Brandon didn’t say anything, electing to focus on sharpening his shiny new greatsword. Eddard thought he looked rather like their father when he cleaned Ice under the Heart Tree in the Godswood. He didn’t make a sound, but Eddard didn’t fail to hear a sudden scrape of the whetstone against the blade at the sound of Lyanna’s uncharacteristic quietness.

Eddard looked behind him to see Benjen standing against a tree, waiting for Lyanna and trying his hardest to pretend like he wasn’t listening to their conversation.

“One of Lord Nester Royce’s servants,” Eddard replied hesitantly. He hoped that Brandon would help him change the subject, but his elder brother just shook his head as if to say _Robert Baratheon is your friend. You deal with it_. “Lyanna… Lord Nester has taken the woman and her child into his services. You would never have to deal with them.”

“Is that what you think I want, Ned?” Lyanna asked sadly, “to take a child from her father? What does Robert intend to do about her? Leave her with her mother? Or take her to Storm’s End?”

“I know not. What would you have him do?” Eddard asked. Lyanna seemed to take offense to this, and she shot Eddard a dirty look.

“I would not have him take a babe from her mother’s breast. Nor would I have him shirk his duties as a father. I would have him not sire children if he is unprepared to be a father,” Lyanna replied stiffly. She briefly looked up and caught Brandon’s eyes, and the two shared a look that Eddard didn’t understand. “How many more children does _your friend_ expect me to overlook?” she spat. Eddard flinched at her tone – this was not the way he wanted their reunion to go.

“Lya,” Brandon said, cutting her off before she could say anymore. “Go with Ben.” Lyanna tried to say something more, but Brandon gave her a stern look that made her hold her tongue. _He truly has become a man grown_ , Eddard thought – he knew few else who could even hope to abate their sister’s wildness.

“I know that Robert will fall in love with you if you give him a chance, Lya,” Eddard said as Lyanna rose. This was not a position in which he’d he had hoped to find himself, and he prayed that Robert and Lyanna would take a liking to each other. More than anything, he hoped that he would not have to choose between his best friend and his little sister.

“Love is sweet, Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature,” Lyanna said shortly, stomping off after Benjen.

Brandon and Eddard sat in silence for a few minutes; the only sounds were the scrape of the whetstone against Brandon’s sword and the crackling of the flames. Eddard looked up every so often, trying to gauge Brandon’s opinions, but strangely enough, Brandon seemed an enigma. His face was quiet and thoughtful, a far cry from the dashing confidence that Eddard figured would usually make an impression with everyone who met him. No, Brandon looked almost pensive.

“She isn’t angry with you,” Bran said suddenly, breaking the silence. He didn’t look up from his sword, and even though he spoke quietly, he still caught Eddard by surprise. He’d switched whetstones, presumably to one with a finer grain, and he ran it over the blade of his sword again.

“Are you sure about that?” Eddard asked softly, wanting to believe him. “I cannot say she seemed overly thrilled.” Eddard tucked his knees to his chest and stared into the flames. “Is that a new sword, Bran?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Aye it is,” Brandon said proudly, raising it high to let the flickering light of the flames catch the shiny steel. He handed it to Eddard, who tested the heft and feel. It was a heavy weapon, no one could deny that, but even without knowing much about swords and smithing Eddard could tell the craftsmanship was of a quality that any knight of the Vale would kill for. “I commissioned it in White Harbor – it’s from the Street of Steel in King’s Landing.”

“That must have been quite the expense,” Eddard whistled, handing it back. He compared it to his own longsword, a gift from Lord Arryn last year. It was a perfectly serviceable sword all the same, but Brandon’s weapon was shy only of Valyrian steel.

“Worry not, Ned,” Brandon grinned, as if he could guess Eddard’s thoughts. “I didn’t make father buy this for me.” His grey eyes turned wistful for a moment before he spoke again. “There were reports of wildling bandits throughout the Wolfswood. I rode with several dozen men from Deepwood Motte, Torrhen’s Square, Barrowtown, and the Rills and drove them out. I broke my sword and perhaps five other weapons in that progress,” he said, shaking his head. “Decided afterwards that it would be worth investing in a proper blade. I was right; it served me well when the wildlings attacked.”

Eddard was impressed, and he felt just a touch inadequate in comparison. “Is that where you earned your spurs?”

“Aye, Ser Helmen Tallhart thought I’d deserved them. Can’t say I ever thought much of these fancy Southron titles, but _Ser Brandon Stark_ rolls well off of the tongue, I think.”

“So, your time in Barrowtown was fruitful then?” Eddard asked, remembering that he hadn’t been the only Stark fostered.

“ _Fruitful_ ,” Brandon breathed, chuckling a little at Eddard’s choice of words. “Very nearly, Ned. Very nearly.” Eddard frowned in misunderstanding. “What Lya said to you… much of that was intended for me,” he said lamely, gesturing with his hands until Eddard caught his meaning.

“Seven Hells, Bran… You _didn’t._ ”

“I haven’t fathered any bastards, Ned,” Brandon said, interrupting him. “That doesn’t mean I haven’t always acted _honorably_.”

“Lady Dustin did not seem overly fond of me,” Eddard noted, remembering Barbrey Dustin – formerly Barbrey Ryswell – and the way she scowled at him even as Lord Willem Dustin eagerly welcomed him into the Northmen’s camp.

“Aye, Barbrey,” Brandon trailed off, whistling fondly. “I never intended to marry her, not that Lord Ryswell and father took it well. It was just a bit of fun for me, but she had ambitions of being the next Lady of Winterfell. When she told her father that she was with child… I guess I should thank the Gods for moon tea.”

“So, Lord Dustin took her to wife,” Eddard finished.

“He felt he owed me for saving him in the Wolfswood,” Brandon sighed. “I should be so fortunate, aye? My skill with the sword covers for my carelessness with my… er… _sword._ Even still, I can’t say they much love me in Barrowtown,” he drawled sarcastically.

“Father must not have taken it well.”

“Ha! You could say that!” Brandon laughed. “He told me that he’d give _you_ Winterfell if I ever did anything that foolish again!” Brandon shook his head slightly. “I’m to have a Southron wife, and I’m sure you know what _they’re_ like. Can’t have the heir to Winterfell dishonoring a woman he’s never met with his indiscretions,” he said bitterly.

“Bran…”

“That wasn’t the worst of it, though,” Brandon admitted. “If you think _your_ reunion with Lya was messy, you should have seen _mine_!”

“She was angry?” Eddard asked, still wincing at the way Lyanna had torn into him over Robert.

“Aye, she was,” Brandon said. “But worse than anything, she was disappointed and scared.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Ned… Lya may have changed in some ways, but she is still the scrappy little girl who used to ride through the Wolfswood and beg father to teach her to use a sword,” Bran says. “She’s only become _more_ headstrong and independent since you’ve left, and that is fine, I guess. But you couldn’t even begin to imagine how many Northmen have asked father for her hand, and all I can say to them is woe to any man who dares to tame a she-wolf.”

“I noticed,” Eddard said dryly, grinning all the same. “She’s not much like the ladies of the Vale.”

“There are times when I wouldn’t inflict her on my most unruly bannerman. She’s _me_ with teats!” Brandon laughed. “I’ve not a clue how some Southron Lord is supposed to bring her to heel – she’d eat him alive!”

“Is this about Robert?” Eddard asked, though from Brandon’s look he already knew.

“Tell me true, Ned,” Brandon said, “what kind of man is Robert Baratheon? For if he asked father for Lya’s hand, father would say yes.”

That should have filled Eddard with excitement, but it didn’t.

“Robert is my best friend,” Eddard said. “He can have a great… _appetite_ … but he’s handsome and charming… there’s a good reason so many women flock to him. Robert’s a good man and he’d go to the ends of the world for the people he cares about.”

“He sounds like me,” Brandon observed quietly.

“He’s very much like you, Bran,” Eddard said earnestly, though he noticed that Brandon winced at his words.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Brandon said quietly. “After what happened with Barbrey…” Brandon shook his head slightly. “All I could think of was Lyanna, what if she was to marry someone who would treat her as carelessly as I did Barbrey? I couldn’t even step foot in Wintertown without wondering if her future husband would do the same behind her back.” Eddard frowned, wanting to protest, but he kept quiet and listened instead. “You did not see how terrified Lya was, watching as father, Lord Ryswell, and Lord Dustin debated what would happen to Barbrey. Lya is my baby sister, and I love her more than anything in the world, but the Gods know we each have more than enough Wolf’s blood for two. She shouldn’t have to marry a man like me.”

“Bran, she loves you too,” Eddard said reassuringly.

“All the same, she should marry someone like _you,_ ” Brandon insisted.

“Someone boring, you mean?” Eddard asked darkly. “Someone who would never ride with her favor on his arm? Someone who would lose a fight for her honor if ever he dared fight one?”

Brandon shook his head. “Someone kind,” he said instead. “Someone who thinks before he acts. Someone who will care about her happiness more than her beauty.”

“Robert is a good man,” Eddard insisted. “I know he can be a bit…” he gestured meaningfully with his hands, “but he’s a good man. If she gives him a chance…”

“It is on your friend to earn that chance,” Brandon said firmly. “I’ll tell you, your Lord Baratheon had better make a damned good second impression, for he’s already made a poor first one. Lya’s demanding even at the best of times, and I promise you, Robert Baratheon will be far from the only suitor here.”

“He will behave,” Eddard swore, trying to ignore the nervous pit of dread in his stomach at Brandon’s words.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... This chapter took a bit longer than I planned, but here it is!
> 
> I mentioned in the last chapter that dhazellouise's visual moodboard things, and I think her one for a young Robert is really good, and I just thought about that when I wrote this. So yeah, check her stuff out. https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhazellouise/pseuds/dhazellouise
> 
> As for characterizations, I tried to keep them fairly faithful to canon, but I wanted to show why Ned would hold Robert in such high esteem. Same with Brandon. He's a reckless jackass, but I wanted to show that he still genuinely loves his sister and wants her to be happy.
> 
> Anyways, next time: Ser Jaime Lannister attends his first major tourney as a knight


	3. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lion's Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW this chapter took a long time. It's here now, though, so enjoy!

 

Jaime Lannister woke up in his own golden tent, surrounded by the riches and pageantry befitting none but the heir to Casterly Rock. Truth be told, he didn’t wake up per se as he’d never fallen asleep in the first place, but that was beside the point. What mattered was that when dawn broke and _everyone else_ awoke, Jaime felt as rich as a king. His gilded longsword, bearing two golden Lannister lions on the crossguard and another pair of roaring lion heads on the pommel. The blade was hidden behind Jaime’s ornately decorated leather scabbard, but Jaime could still remember the way the gilded steel shone as bright as the sun when his father had handed him the sword. The sword leaned against a chest containing Jaime’s jousting armor, gold and red as befitting a man of his House. He’d spent the night jittering with a nervous energy, and he must have polished his armor to a mirror shine several times over. Perhaps if he couldn’t out-joust Ser Barristan the Bold, he could _blind_ him.

So yes, Jaime Lannister was very proud to say that he enjoyed certain privileges that most boys of sixteen didn’t. If you asked him, it was because he was not a _boy_ of sixteen but rather a man… of sixteen. Sure, he was not technically of an age with most of the knights hoping to try their luck in Walter Whent’s grand tourney, but he was _Ser_ Jaime Lannister all the same, a knight charged under the Seven to be brave and just and defend those who could not defend themselves. And which of those knights could say they’d been knighted by _Ser Arthur Dayne_? If you asked Jaime, that kind of knighthood, the one he received kneeling in the dirt of the Kingswood while the greatest knight who ever lived placed his sword forged from a fallen star on Jaime’s shoulder was worth three of the sort of knighthood given to some hedge knight hiding in bushes and scraping together a living wandering from tourney to tourney hoping for the purses of petty lords. No, Ser Jaime Lannister had earned his luxuries by being better than most men.

If you asked Cersei, she would probably tell you that Jaime only had what he did because their father was the richest man in Westeros.

But what did Cersei know, Jaime wondered. She still thought she would marry Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and bear him Princes and Princesses when he succeeded his royal father. Jaime still remembered the tourney at Lannisport to celebrate the birth of the younger Prince Viserys when he was ten. It had been one of the grandest affairs he’d ever seen, second only to Lord Whent’s impending celebration. For Jaime, the tourney at Lannisport had been an incredible experience – he’d seen some of the greatest knights in the Realm test their mettle and, in the end, Ser Arthur Dayne had triumphed over Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in three heart-pounding passes and a long duel on the ground and crowned his sister as the Queen of Love and Beauty. _Gods, that will be me this time_ , Jaime thought.

To his father and sister, though, the tourney had been an abject failure. Firstly, the Prince of Dragonstone had lost the last tilt, ruining Cersei’s hopes that he would crown her as the Queen of Love and Beauty. Then King Aerys had declined – and rather rudely too – his father’s request for the Prince of Dragonstone to take Cersei as a wife and Jaime as a squire. Lord Tywin had cancelled the ending feast in frustration and resigned his position as Hand of the King, refusing to leave the Westerlands or let his children return to King’s Landing. Jaime could still remember Miles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth excitedly leaving with the Prince; he wouldn’t see either of them until he arrived in King’s Landing in the service of Lord Sumner Crakehall and rode against the Kingswood Brotherhood.

After the disastrous end to that tourney, it had taken a great deal of pleading on both Jaime and Cersei’s part to convince their father to bring them to Harrenhal, but it was worth it.

 _By the Seven, was it worth it,_ Jaime thought as the quiet of his morning was finally disturbed.

“Ser Jaime,” a messenger’s voice drifted through the tent flaps. “Lord Lannister invites you to break your fast with your family.” Jaime puffed up at the formality.

“Tell my lord father that I shall join him immediately.” Jaime declared, lacing his gold and red doublet and gambeson. The livery was spun from the finest silk, and it slipped over his shoulders with ease. He grabbed his sword belt as he walked into the open morning air, feeling the comfortable heft of the steel on the left side of his hip.

Dawn had just broken, and Jaime figured he would have been very tired had he not been bursting with excitement. He couldn’t say that he was even particularly hungry – his morning meal was just another hurdle to clear before he could finally show his mettle to the entire realm.

Jaime’s own tent was right beside that of his father, where the Lannister family broke their fast this morning. There were several more crimson and gold tents for the rest of the lions of Casterly Rock, surrounded by many more of a variety of colors and sizes representing the nobility of the Westerlands- the various Houses that made their home in the lions’ domain. From the headwaters of the Tumblestone and Red Fork rivers to the Sunset Sea to the mountains of the Golden tooth to the flatlands of Wyndhall and Cornfield, all bent to Casterly Rock and swore fealty to Jaime’s father as they had to his grandfather before him and all the Lords Lannister descended from Lann the Clever. _And they will swear that to me, one day_ , Jaime thought, nodding in acknowledgment to the old Lord Garrison of the Feastfires who bowed low in deference to the young heir of his liege lord. The wide swath of settlements was arranged in such a way as to give Jaime a clear view of all that would one day be his, of knights dreaming of glory and maidens dreaming of songs and children running around each other, that was his ancestor’s legacy and his destiny.

“Ho, Ser Jaime!” a voice called. Jaime turned to see Addam Marbrand, his old boyhood friend, waving him over. Addam sat with a few older knights around a horn of ale and flagon of wine, telling stories back and forth. An old singer had a lute on his knee, singing an old tavern song about some maiden and an Ironborn raider. Ser Rupert Brax offered Jaime a seat, but Jaime did not think it wise to keep his father waiting, especially to sit with Brax’s bastards and drink.

“I fear my Lord father has need of me,” Jaime said apologetically.

“Fear not, Ser Jaime Lannister,” said Ser Rupert Brax, testing the words on his tongue. His elder brother, the old Lord of Hornvale, was elsewhere, but Ser Rupert sat with his two sons, the bastards of Brax.

“Give our regards to Lord Lannister and the other Lannister children,” the elder said, almost dismissively, as if Jaime’s presence was welcome but not a prerequisite for their merry-making. _Perhaps the bastard should spend less time putting on airs in the mirror and more time on his knees_ , Jaime thought. Unlike his father, Ser Robb Hill had Lannister looks, Jaime thought, like his younger brother, Ser Alyn. Blonde with green eyes, tall, lithe, and fair, the bastards of Brax would have had maidens swooning left and right but for their unfortunate surnames. _And that they are of Hornvale_ , Jaime mentally amended. The Horned Horses of Hornvale were among the lowest of the lesser Western houses, and they struggled to find matches for their sons and daughters in the West.

Ser Robb’s condescending gaze was almost definitely a Lannister trait, Jaime thought, and he might consider the bastard a part of the canon of his own illustrious family if not for the red horned horse against a field of white on his cloak, a nod the colors of his father’s sigil.

“We shall save you a drink. We still have some summerwine if you can’t keep down ale,” Ser Alyn grunted in assent before turning back to Ser Roland Crakehall, asking the heir to Crakehall Castle of his sickly young son. _A man with twice my years… and half my glories_ , Jaime thought. That someone would so casually dismiss him as a child bothered Jaime, but that the dismissal came from one of the _bastards of Brax_ brought bile up his throat.

“I can handle this piss-flavored wheat water,” Jaime sneered, flashing a cocky grin with one hand on the golden hilt of the longsword at his hip. He grabbed the horn of ale from Ser Rolland and stole a generous gulp.

Jaime’s eyes bulged at the bitter taste, swallowing with difficulty. Crakehall laughed as Jaime coughed and sputtered, and Jaime scowled at the way all the men treated him like a child.

“I guess Ser Arthur Dayne does not knight men for their drinking!” Ser Rolland laughed.

“No, he knights men for valor, as you would know had you ridden with your father and I against Simon Toyne,” Jaime shot back. “No, you were preoccupied with tending to your squalling babe like a common wetnurse. I suppose he takes after his father. I’ll be sure to remember you one day when I have a son of my own in need of a tit to suck, but when I call the banners of the West behind Casterly Rock, I should remember the _real_ knights.” Jaime turned to the singer, who watched the tense knights awkwardly as Jaime upbraided the Crakehall knight. “Your son may take after his father, but so do I take after mine. And if you doubt me, you can listen to a different song. I assume you know the words.”

Jaime tossed a gold dragon to the singer, who plucked the opening bars to _The Rains of Castamere_ as most Westermen bards knew to do when a Lannister paid so handsomely after chastising a vassal. Ser Robb Hill stood up angrily before the singer finished the first line, storming away. Ser Rupert Brax nervously followed, a thousand apologies on his tongue. His other son, Ser Alyn, was far less polite, following Ser Robb without so much as another word to Jaime. _A bastard’s manners,_ Jaime thought.

Jaime tossed the horn of ale into Ser Roland’s hand, smirking at Ser Rolland’s affronted huff and sauntering away.

With the pride that comes with youth and glory, with the richest of the Seven Kingdoms in his future, Jaime strode into his father’s tent. The rest of the Lannister family sat at a long oak table, its wood stained a deep, dark red and covered with a crimson tablecloth bearing the golden Lion of Lannister. Naturally, Jaime’s lord father, Lord Tywin Lannister, sat at the head of the table. A strongly built man even in middle age, Tywin Lannister commanded respect with every scowl and glare. His green eyes, flecked with gold, darted to Jaime, and Jaime felt small and insignificant under the cold evaluation. Lord Tywin must have approved, though, for he merely nodded and tilted his head to the empty seat at his right. Jaime took the seat, sitting opposite lord his father’s eldest brother, Ser Kevan Lannister, and beside his late mother’s brother, Ser Stafford Lannister. His father’s other siblings, Ser Tygett, Ser Gerion, and Lady Genna Lannister sat further down. Genna, who had come down from her home in the Twins, had her youngest child, a boy of three, on her lap, and Jaime noted with no small amusement that despite the presence of Genna’s three children at the Lannister table, her husband, an idiot Frey knight, had not been allowed to sit with them but rather made to eat outside with the men-at-arms.

And finally, Jaime locked eyes with his sister, Cersei, who sat next to Genna, and their other aunts Dorna and Darlessa. She gave him just the slightest smirk, one anyone else would assume was merely innocent sibling affection.

“Father. Uncles,” Jaime acknowledged formally as he sat down. “Aunt Genna.”

“Jaime,” Lady Genna tutted. “You look as if you’ve hardly slept a wink.”

“I did manage a little sleep, dear Aunt,” Jaime said, in mild protest. He was a _knight_. He didn’t need to be coddled by women anymore.

“I remember my first tourney,” Ser Gerion whistled in fond remembrance. “A small affair in Kayce. It was the first time I had the courage to write my name in the lists. I did not get much sleep that night, I’ll tell you. Couldn’t eat anything either. I rode against some knight from the Fair Isle with a bellyful of wine and little else.”

“And he threw you off of your horse in one pass,” Ser Kevan said gruffly. Gerion just brushed his remark off.

“I’ll tell you, I’ve smiled more in defeat than you or Tywin have ever done in victory,” he laughed.

“Yes, you’ve given our family many smiles, Gerion,” Lord Tywin said sardonically. “Little else, though.” He didn’t smile – he never did, not after Jaime’s mother died – but his lips pinched in such a way as to almost suggest one, and Jaime was sure a shiver passed through half the West.

Gerion’s smile only wavered slightly, but Jaime noticed all the same. “I’m sure you will fare much better, lad,” Gerion said to Jaime.

“If he eats,” Genna said sternly, pushing a leg of lamb to Jaime.

“Do you plan to enter the lists, Uncle Tyg?” Jaime asked. Ser Tygett Lannister was probably the man to whom Jaime found himself most often compared. At one and thirty, Tygett was one of the most well-respected knights in the West. And Jaime hoped to bring similar glory and renown to the Lannister name from the Sunset Sea to the Summer Sea to the Narrow one with an unerring sword and golden lances.

“Of course I do, Jaime,” Ser Tygett said with a grin. “Gerion and Stafford too. Between the lot of us, I daresay a golden lance will take the Crown of Love and Beauty, and a golden head will wear it.” The men at the table cheered loudly at Tygett’s words, shouting _‘Lannister!’_ and _‘Hear Me Roar!_ ’, and Jaime could not help but join in. Ser Stafford gave Jaime a proud knock on the shoulder as he and Ser Gerion raised their goblets in agreement, and Jaime spared a glance at Cersei. She gave him a coy smirk, as if Jaime was missing something.

Jaime looked over to his left, at his father sitting at the head of the table. His face was cold and unreadable, the opposite of the cheering Lannister men.

“Only you could be so dour at a festivity like this. Give us a smile once in a while, Tywin,” Gerion japed. “Perhaps we should crown _you_ the Queen of Love and Beauty.” All the laughs died then – only a man bearing the Lannister name could ever dare make such a remark at the notoriously humorless Lord of Casterly Rock and hope to keep his head. And even then, the fallout would be swift. For his part, Jaime’s lord father merely put down his spoon of flavorless soup and wiped his mouth before speaking, the picture of dignity and statesmanship. He didn’t _glare,_ per se, but his eyes glinted dangerously.

“To celebrate the birth of Prince Viserys five years ago, I held a grand tourney, almost as grand as this one,” Lord Tywin said slowly. Just the iron tone of his voice was enough to make Jaime nervous, but the way he brought up the Tourney at Lannisport made the skin on the back of his neck crawl. No one in Casterly Rock ever mentioned how half the realm came down the Lannisport to watch the King insult Tywin to his face, not less they learn that the Lion was at his most dangerous when his pride was wounded. “I’m sure you remember, Gerion, Tygett, unless Prince Rhaegar’s lance truck the memory from your heads when he knocked the two of you to the ground.”

His eyes surveyed the Lannister table as he spoke, stopping over each of the men who’d so eagerly cheered. “How many of you rode in the lists, I wonder. My two brothers, my two good-brothers, and my nephew... and how did you fare? You, Gerion, who commissioned a horse from Highgarden because only the very best could suffice for you. Or you, Stafford, with lances of golden wood from the Summer Isles. Or Damien and Damon, who shouted _‘Hear Me Roar!’_ and _‘Casterly Rock!’_ when they charged. Or you, Tygett, who flew the lion that so proudly graced the banners of our father and his father before him. Tell me, you so glorious knights of House Lannister, who was it that wore the crown of golden roses in the end?” he asked. “Jaime? Do you know? You so eagerly watched that last tilt.”

 _Do I know?_ Jaime thought sardonically. _As if I could ever forget_. Jaime could still remember the way the crowd cheered itself hoarse, nobles from the stands and smallfolk echoing off of Casterly Rock alike, as Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Arthur Dayne passed each other thrice before dueling on the ground for an hour. Oh, how the crowds had cheered – Jaime would know, for he cheered as loudly as the next man, enough to the point where he could not speak nor hear without great difficulty for days. Jaime had heard tales of Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, of Duncan the Tall and Sers Arryk and Erryk Cargyll, of Ser Gwayne Corbray crossing Valyrian steel swords with the would-be usurper Daemon Blackfyre, but he was certain that few could compare to the sight of the Sword of the Morning and the Prince of Dragonstone in their elegant dance of steel.

Each moment of that bout was etched into his memory, from their shining armor – black for Prince Rhaegar and silver for Ser Arthur – to the way the raucous crowd stilled to nervous silence as the two passed each other, quiet enough to hear the clop of their horses’ hooves. Jaime remembered how when they broke every lance they had against each other without victor they refused to leave the judgement of the victor to the King, instead leaping from their horses and drawing their weapons – Prince Rhaegar a black longsword with a silver hilt and Ser Arthur his legendary sword Dawn, whose blade shone so brightly that it could blind a man standing on the walls of Casterly Rock high above the jousting field in Lannisport. Jaime remembered the crowd falling over itself to cheer and cry out for every clash, torn between their beloved Crown Prince and the greatest knight who ever lived. It had been a nerve-wracking hour, and though Jaime would later overhear Prince Rhaegar admit with great reluctance to Ser Arthur that he’d not stood a chance, Jaime had thought at the time that victory could have fallen to either man. That must have been the first tourney where both the winner and the loser received equal applause, for when Ser Arthur finally sent the Prince to the ground in defeat the roar of the audience was deafening from Dorne to the Wall. Jaime remembered watching Prince Rhaegar concede after Ser Arthur helped him up, and he would never forget how Ser Arthur climbed back atop his silver steed and took the garland of golden roses from the herald and rode over to his little sister.

Ashara Dayne, the younger sister of the Sword of the Morning was of an age with him and Cersei, and though Jaime could recognize her beauty, she could hardly compare to the light of the West that was his own sister. Even still, Jaime had never so desperately wanted anything as much as he wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne then, crowning his sister as the Queen of Love and Beauty before the entire realm. _They hadn’t been so much older than I am now_ , Jaime thought, _seven-and-ten… merely a year older than I am now_. Even still, Jaime knew it was only in the land of dreams that he could ever dare hope to equal the display of skill he had seen that day. That did not stop Jaime from dreaming though, dreaming of one day being himself known as the greatest knight to ever live.

Jaime did not realize he had been daydreaming until his uncle nudged him, and he looked up from his plate with trepidation, seeing how his father looked over his family with mild disapproval. Only his uncle Kevan was spared, for he was stalwart in his deference to his elder brother in all matters. Jaime had wondered on more than one occasion whether Kevan took a shit without first consulting the Lord of Casterly Rock.

“No, the day went to Ser Arthur Dayne, of some tiny Dornish vassal house with a sword and little else. It was his sister who was honored in Lannisport, _in my own home_! Peasants sing of Ser Arthur Dayne and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Barristan the Bold when they even remember that there was a tourney at all! I ask you, what good did that blasted tourney do for our dynasty? You think that riding in tourneys and showing off the wealth of Casterly Rock with your arms and armor and horses brings glory to our family, do you?” Lord Tywin said, somehow managing to be both mocking and cold. “All of the precious coin I spent because you wanted to prance like fools, and you had perhaps three wins between you. I spent more gold paying the ransoms for your armor and horses that day then you will ever see in your entire lives.” He shook his head slightly before continuing. “You are Lannisters, and the only humiliation worse than watching my family’s banners trampled into the dirt would have been seeming unable to pay the costs of those losses. But think not for a second that you brought this family _glory_.”

Jaime looked around at his family as his father chastised them all. The men on his mother’s side of the Lannister family, Sers Stafford, Damon, and Damion, had the decency to look abashed and contrite. His father’s own brothers, though, were far less accepting. Gerion’s smile was frozen and forced, and Tygett was as red as the banner behind him.

“I am not some green boy to be scolded over coppers!” Ser Tygett said angrily, flush with humiliation as he rose to his feet, brandishing his silverware like a barbarian would an axe and dagger. Jaime was overcome with the strong urge to, if not eat, then at least push his food around.

“I should be so lucky. No, a man grown like you wastes gold instead.” Lord Tywin stood up before his irate younger brother could reply. “I have more pressing matters to attend to than listening to supposedly grown men act as children,” he said dismissively. “Come find me with Lords Crakehall and Westerling when you’ve remembered that you are _my_ heir, not Ser Arthur Dayne’s,” he said brusquely to Jaime before walking out of the tent, leaving his seat out as if to perpetually remind them of his absence.

Jaime spared Ser Tygett an awkward glance and saw that the knight had turned an uncomfortable shade of purple.

“Tyg…” his aunt Genna said softly, though he did not acknowledge her. He stalked out of the tent under a dark storm cloud, seething as he left. His wife, Lady Darlessa Marbrand, winced at the sound of a hard smash just outside.

“I’ll say this, my brother does indeed know how to darken the brightest of moods,” Gerion said dryly, though from the way his voice cracked Jaime could see that his father’s harsh rebuke had shaken his uncle too. “Perhaps he should have sang _The Rains of Castamere_ too.”

“Gery,” Kevan said sternly.

“Oh, now he speaks!” Gerion mocked. “Brother dear, I fear you’ve taken waiting for Tywin’s leave rather too literally!”

“Gerion! That is enough! We should not fight amongst ourselves in front of the Realm,” Kevan said harder.

"Which is why Tywin was in such concord with our dear Lord father," Gerion drawled sarcastically. "Tell me, Kevan. Did you help dear old Tywin remove that stain on the great Lannister name too?"

"What is that supposed mean?" Kevan growled.

"Nothing," Gerion said innocently, with a false smile on his face. "Merely that it was fortuitous for Tywin that our Lord father passed when he did."

"Enough, Gerion!" Kevan shouted. Gerion just smiled insincerely and stared at the plate before him. “I am sure you will make us proud, Jaime,” Kevan said, turning to him, “but do remember your father’s words, however hard the truths may be. He does mean well, despite what you may think.” Gerion snorted and looked away.

“I know, he has only the best interests of the family name,” Jaime muttered, still stung. He wondered if there was ever a time when he would live up to his father’s expectations. He looked at Tygett’s empty seat in sympathy – Tygett had been the uncle of his who most resented the long, black shadow Jaime’s lord father cast over the West, and Jaime often wondered if he would resemble Tygett Lannister in disposition as he did in martial aptitude had his older twin been born a boy. “If only he could have the best interests of the members of that family once in a while too.”

“Jaime, has your father ever told you about your grandfather and the-”

“The Reynes of Castamere?” Jaime asked sardonically. “I’ve heard the song once or two hundred times, uncle. Fear not. I know about our family’s terrifying reputation.” Jaime hadn’t lied either – the first time he and Cersei heard the story of their father’s brutal suppression of the Reyne-Tarbeck revolt, he was horrified.

Cersei had loved it, though.

“I was referring to a different story, Jaime,” Kevan said, his tone brokering no dissent. Jaime just bowed his head and listened. Heir to the Rock and household knight he and his uncle may respectively be, but Jaime knew better than to disrespect his elders. Especially when said elder was his father’s closest confidante. “Upon my lord father’s death, he left behind a chest of gold for each of his five children to spend how they wished. It was a generous gift, several thousand gold dragons to spend at our own discretion, and while we were still in debt to the Crown and the Iron Bank of Braavos. Do you know what we did with our shares, Jaime? Do you remember, Genna, Gerion?” Genna nodded slightly, a small smile on her lips as she recalled the story. Gerion merely shrugged and looked away, though Jaime could see his shoulders tense.

“Ger spent his gold first, if I recall correctly,” Genna mused. “Drank his way through Lannisport and chartered a fleet of ships to sail the known world for when he was sober. Tyg commissioned a set of gilded armor and a sword much like yours, and a dozen Highgarden horses too. I bought the finest dresses for myself and my friends.”

“And you, uncle?” Jaime asked curiously. “What did you do with your chest of gold?”

“I gave it to your father,” Kevan said plainly. “I thought he might make better use of it, and his plans more like to succeed with twice the amount of money behind them.” _Of course,_ Jaime thought dryly, trying not to roll his eyes. He shared a glance with Cersei, who seemed to agree with his assessment of their boring, dutiful, obedient uncle.

“And what did my Lord father do with all those gold dragons?” Cersei wondered, her voice pitched with a false curiosity.

“He used his and mine own portions to expand mines in the Golden Tooth. He sent Tygett and a company of men with those Highgarden horses to enforce a new set of taxes, he wedded three of Genna’s friends to wealthy Houses in the Reach and the Riverlords, and he took command of Gerion’s ships to open trade with the Summer Isles,” Kevan said, as if Cersei’s question was borne of a sincere interest. “Within three years, Casterly Rock owed not a copper coin to any man in the known world,” Kevan said proudly. “Our family’s reputation is built on my brother’s actions and the way he chooses to put our family over everything else. That will be you one day, and when that day comes, Casterly Rock will need a Tywin, not a Tygett or an Arthur Dayne.”

“Ser Arthur Dayne… again with Ser Arthur Dayne,” Jaime grumbled. “Forgive me for admiring the greatest knight in the realm.”

“Admire him all you like, Jaime,” Genna said. “But know you are bound for a different path than he.”

“And besides,” Cersei cut in. “You speak of Ser Arthur like a swooning maiden. I doubt he even remembers you in passing.”

“Of course he remembers me,” Jaime protested, stung by her cutting remark. He recalled the night Ser Arthur laid the tip of his sword to his shoulder and knighted him. It was the greatest night of his life, and Jaime could not accept that it would have meant so little to Ser Arthur. “I rode with him against the Smiling Knight!” Jaime exclaimed.

“As did several dozen other men,” Cersei scoffed. “How many men were knighted around you?”

 _Miles Mooton_ and _Monford Velaryon_ , Jaime thought quietly. He remembered Ser Barristan the Bold, the man who had once trained Ser Arthur, raising Mooton to knighthood while Ser Arthur himself bestowed knighthood upon one of his Velaryon cousins. Admittedly, that company of men from petty families slightly devalued what Jaime thought was the highest honor in the world, but even still. Ser Arthur Dayne wouldn’t bestow knighthood so frivolously, would he?

“Why you are so enamored with some minor knight eludes me,” Cersei said dismissively. “Especially since Prince Rhaegar is in attendance!”

Jaime had to roll his eyes at the excited gleam in Cersei’s eyes. Ever since the tourney at Lannisport, Cersei had been obsessed with marrying the Prince of Dragonstone and becoming the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She’d held a particular grudge against Ser Arthur, whose victory over Prince Rhaegar in Lannisport prevented the Dragon Prince from crowning her.

Jaime would have pointed out that Cersei had been a girl of ten at the time and that expecting a man seven years her elder to crown a girl not yet flowered was wishful at best, but he did not need the headache. All he could say was that he was sure Prince Rhaegar did not regret missing the pressure of crowning a woman with the entire Realm watching.

“Do you think the Prince will win?” Jaime asked. “Ser Arthur bested him at the Bronzegate, Rosby, and Highgarden. In one of the Storm’s End tourneys too.”

“…and crowned his sister,” Cersei completed. “How boring.”

“Perhaps I should crown another maiden should I win, then,” Jaime suggested cheekily. He enjoyed the way Cersei’s green eyes widened and she scowled in outrage. _Oh sweet sister, how would it feel to watch me with another_ , Jaime wondered.

“If you think that you could defeat Prince Rhaegar, you are a fool,” Cersei spat. Genna shook her head in disapproval.

“Prince Rhaegar won a joust in King’s Landing,” Ser Kevan recalled. “He crowned his Queen mother then, I believe.”

“Well, she is not in attendance and _I_ am,” Cersei said confidently. “Who else would he dream of crowning?”

“You hope to marry the Prince that greatly?” Jaime asked, slightly hurt. _‘What about me?’_ he meant ask before realizing that question would be suspect for anyone who didn’t understand his relationship with Cersei. “You would want to live so far from home?” he asked instead.

“Oh Jaime,” Genna said sympathetically, and Jaime knew that she did not understand as well as she thought she did, else she would react like his late lady mother had done and separated him from Cersei at once. “You are a good brother, Jaime, but all brothers must kiss their sisters goodbye someday. I too said farewell to my home when I married Emm and left for the Crossing.”

 _Did you kiss my father the way I kiss Cersei?_ Jaime wondered darkly, trying not to laugh at the ghastly image. _Were you and Uncle Kevan two halves of the same whole? Did you and Uncle Tyg come into this world together? Do you and Uncle Gery fuck when nobody watches?_

“Why would you assume that we should be parted?” Cersei enquired coyly. Jaime frowned, feeling like he was missing the point her question.

“I am to be Lord of Casterly Rock someday, Sweet Sister,” Jaime said obviously. Cersei merely shrugged his remark off.

“You’ll marry too, one day,” Kevan said. Jaime enjoyed the way Cersei narrowed her eyes at the remark. “Perhaps Lysa Tully, Shierle Swyft, or Melessa Crakehall,” he mused thoughtfully, missing how Cersei sneered in distaste.

“You should go find father,” Cersei said, changing the subject. Jaime’s eyes flew wide open and he shot up out of his chair. “Best not keep our Lord father waiting, dear brother!” her voice sang as Jaime ran.

 

Jaime found his father speaking with Lord Sumner Crakehall, Ser Roland Crakehall, and Lord Gawen Westerling of the Crag. Lord Tywin Lannister still seemed to be in a poor mood, and though he did not shout, his words still clearly rattled Lord Westerling. Lord Crakehall noticed Jaime first, giving his former squire a broad smile. Jaime returned his easy grin, the man had always had a fondness for Jaime, but after Jaime saved the Lord of Crakehall from the Smiling Knight in the King’s Wood, the man loved Jaime more than he did his own son. Jaime smirked at the way Roland Crakehall scowled and turned away. _Run away, little pig_ , Jaime thought of the man old enough to be his father yet who would never be his peer, _the lions have come to play_.

Said the Lord of Crakehall Castle, before Jaime cut him off, “…a rosy girl.”

“Good morn’, my lords, Ser Boar,” Jaime said, introducing himself, casting Ser Roland a cheeky wink. The older knight was heir to a small castle barely a tenth the breadth of Lannisport but like the Western city permanently in the shadow of Casterly Rock. If his Lord father disapproved of the cavalier way Jaime carried himself, he said nothing, and the two lords inclined their heads in acknowledgement.

“Oh, Jaime, Ser, I wish you hale yourself,” the Lord of Crag said, with the deference due to his liege lord’s heir. A slight, gaunt man, Lord Westerling was a man well respected for his honor and his just disposition. Most men in the West admired how Lord Westerling adjudicated disputes with compassion and fairness, but Jaime had always thought the man dead dull, with more honor than charisma. Respected he may be, Jaime thought, but feared like Jaime’s father he was not.

“My father had words for me, I do believe.” That he said, a tacit dismissal, a grin from ear to ear as they obeyed. Lord Tywin, Warden of the West, was not, thought Jaime, overly cross with his swagger. _A good omen_.

“But of course,” Lord Crakehall said, delightfully acquiescent. “I would not keep you.” He made to leave for other parts, a tourney’s grand festivities in which he would partake. “Before I let your father grant your audience, Ser Jaime,” Crakehall said, mien flush with joviality and mirth, “shall you compete with golden lance for the honor of the Rock?”

“If you mean the joust, my lord, I swear you’ll see me. Should your eyes be quick enough.”

Lord Crakehall clapped Jaime on the shoulder and laughed, rumbling like thunder. “Good lad,” he said, before taking his leave, and Jaime wondered if he had a fraction of the excitement for when Ser Roland wrote his name in the lists.

“The Lannister name is not a toy to show off to your peers,” Lord Tywin said when the Crakehalls were beyond earshot.

“ _Peers?_ ” Jaime scoffed, “Roland Crakehall is not my peer. Neither are Rupert Brax, nor those bastards of his.” He had no doubt his Lord father had heard of the incident with Crakehall and Brax earlier that day. Not that he truly cared. House Brax was the laughingstock of the West for as long as he could remember. They had married into both the Houses Reyne and Tarbeck, yet

“Denigrate a vassal enough, and he will seek for another to replace you,” Lord Tywin said.

“But praise him overly, and he will think to _be_ the one to replace you,” Jaime returned, eyeing Ser Rolland over his shoulder. “What does the lion care of the opinions of the sheep?”

“The lion cares not, but the shepherd should guide the eyes of his flock,” Lord Tywin said. Jaime scoffed dismissively, looking away when his Lord father glared at him. “Why do you think I have singers play _the Rains of Castamere_?” Lord Tywin asked. “Is it to sooth my vanity?”

“Vanity?” Jaime echoed again, sounding like a parrot even to his own ears. “They treated me like a child!”

Jaime expected his father to make some cutting remark, but instead the Lord of Lannister asked him, “Do you know why I summoned the Lords Crakehall and Westerling?”.

“Was it not gold?” returned Jaime, as good an answer as any. For it was known to all that Lannisters loved little more than gold, be it a precious metal drawn from earth or the coat of the lion stitched on their banners.

“No, it was not _gold_ ,” Lord Tywin said, shaking his head in disappointment. “I wish you would learn to see beyond the shiny colors right in front of your face. It may have been welcome as a child, but you have six and ten years behind you. Most would yet call that boyhood, but you have assured me that you are a man grown now, _Ser Jaime_.” Jaime tried not to flinch, feeling his lord father’s cutting gaze like the edge of a blade.

“I am a man grown,” Jaime insisted. Would a boy walk in his gilded armor? Would a boy wear his sword? Would a boy ride with the greatest knight who ever lived?

“Then as a man grown, it is time you took a wife,” Lord Tywin said, and Jaime felt a shiver at his words. “Both Crakehall and Westerling will be your vassals one day, loyal bannerman at your call. They’ve brought their daughters here. Melessa Crakehall, for one, would be a fair bride for you and a mother to your heir.”

“Marriage?” Jaime asked, horrified. “Heirs?” As much as he enjoyed his sister’s envy at the thought losing him, his stomach turned at the thought of bedding any woman but Cersei.

“Such is your duty as the heir to Casterly Rock, as was mine one day. How else do you think our family has endured?” Lord Tywin silenced his protests. “Though perhaps I should not be surprised at your hesitance. This is a duty Ser Arthur Dayne could never have prepared you for.”

“Always with Ser Arthur Dayne,” Jaime shot back, with an insolence that would have gotten a lesser man killed. “I was knighted by the greatest knight who ever lived at an age when most boys are still wiping their own knights’ arses! Most fathers would be proud.”

“What do you intend to do with that knighthood then, _Ser Jaime_?” Lord Tywin asked him. “This lofty honor that puts you above us all, what good has that done for our family?” Jaime struggled for an answer. _I have contributed to this family,_ Jaime thought adamantly, scowling. “You’ve too much of my brother in you. All three of my brothers; As unserious and flippant as Gerion, as obedient as Kevan when your sister calls.” Jaime froze at that. _He can’t know, can he?_ Jaime thought nervously under his father’s harsh stare. He held his breath, barely stifling a relieved exhale when his father remained on the subject of his three brothers “It’s Tygett you most resemble though. If you aren’t careful, you’ll amount to as much as he has.”

“I’ll be a respected knight?” Jaime asked snidely. “I already am, father.”

“My brother would have you think that. _Ser Tygett,_ they call him and how proud it makes him. But one day, you will learn that the only part of your name that matters is _Lannister_. Not _Ser,_ not _Jaime. Lannister._ Tygett will never understand, I know that now. But you are the heir to Casterly Rock, and you cannot afford to waste your life away, as Tygett has done.”

“Waste his life away?” Jaime echoed is disbelief. His uncle was among the greatest knights in the Seven Kingdoms, with a dozen tourney victories at just 31 years. “Tell me, father, which of our family _hasn’t_ disappointed you?”

Lord Tywin did not bother dignifying that remark with a response. “If you think I’ve brought our entire family to these damned ruins for pleasure,” he said instead, before Jaime cut him off.

“Entire family? You and I both know that is a lie!” Jaime said, outraged. “You left Tyrion behind, alone!”

“Speak not of that vile creature to me!” Lord Tywin snarled, levelling Jaime with a frightening glare. “I have one worthless son, I do not need another!” Jaime flinched but held his ground.

“ _Creature_?! That _creature_ is your son! A boy of eight! He is my brother, his name is Tyrion,” Jaime shot back, “and he is as much a Lannister as you or I!”

“Get out of my sight,” Lord Tywin said angrily, his normally impassive stoicism totally marred by rage. Jaime tried to object, but he could tell when his father stopped listening. “I said, _get out!”_

Jaime walked away, fists balled and angry tears in his eyes.

“And Jaime,” Lord Tywin called after him. Jaime stopped at his voice, his back still turned. “There’s only one man I hope crowns your sister, and it is not you. If by some chance you _do_ win the joust, lay that blasted crown on someone else’s lap. Dayne can afford to honor only his sister, but you need another lady.” Jaime balked for a moment. _Another lady_. “ _Do you understand?”_ Lord Tywin said, his voice quieting down to those low, unsettling iron tones.

Jaime nodded stiffly, refusing to turn to meet his Lord father’s eyes. “Good,” Lord Tywin said in dismissal, and Jaime stalked off back to his tent.

 

 _‘Casterly Rock needs another Tywin, not another Tygett or an Arthur Dayne.’_ Jaime paced the length of his gaudy red tent, his thoughts roiling and crashing like waves against the walls of Casterly Rock. _‘I doubt he even remembers you in passing,’_ Cersei’s voice taunted him. Jaime thought of those blasted bastards of Brax, sneering and haughty despite their lowly station. Jaime thought of his Uncle Tyg’s flushed face, of his Uncle Gery’s brittle smile. He tried to think of Ser Arthur Dayne’s face as he charged Jaime with knighthood, but he could only see his father, stern with disapproval. _‘You and he were born for different paths,’_ his Uncle Kevan’s voice reminded him. _‘You are a boy, not a man,’_ his father whispered. _‘I need a man. Casterly Rock needs a man. House Lannister needs a man’_

Jaime didn’t ever realize he’d slammed his hand on his chest until after the deed. He hissed as he drew his throbbing knuckles to his lips, feeling the sting from where the skin had broken. _I cannot afford to lose my right hand_ , Jaime thought. It was the only part of him that seemed to live up to everyone’s expectations. Not even his cock seemed to follow as his father wished, Jaime thought, unless it was Lord Tywin’s secret hope that it only grow stiff for Cersei.

Likely not, Jaime thought wryly, pressing his face against the stained wood of the chest. Jaime nursed his hand, hoping it wouldn’t bruise. He would need it today for the preliminary jousts. With knights from every corner of Westeros had come to Harrenhal, and Jaime had half a dozen hedge knights and assorted ilk to go through before he could find a worthy opponent. Before today, he might have found the routine tedious, but now there was nothing Jaime needed more than to send into the dirt some idiot from a house no one cared about in the Reach or wherever. He’d show them what the Lion of Lannister was capable of, Jaime thought. _‘Gods, Roland Crakehall should pray to every one of the Seven that he loses before he faces me.’_

Jaime opened the chest, basking in the glow of his golden armor. Trimmed with red, the armor was designed to make an impression. The breastplate had the golden lion of Lannister emblazoned on it, and the shoulder pauldrens were shaped like snarling lions with flaming manes. Unbidden, his Lord father’s voice drifted between his thoughts, reminding him of his Uncle Tyg. The greatest warrior in the West, they called Ser Tygett Lannister, those who even remembered his name. Jaime couldn’t imagine being one of those Lannister knights so painfully humiliated by his father. _And perhaps that was the point._

Jaime closed the trunk, unable to look at the armor.

Jaime heard a noise coming from outside the tent. He opened the flaps of the tent to see Cersei standing right in front of him, an impish smirk on her full, ruby-red lips and a mischievous glint in her green cat-eyes. Her hair, shining like spun gold and so much like his own, was pulled into an elaborate display of braids and loops that circled her head like a gilded crown and fell behind her shoulders like a waterfall of molten gold. Her face was ever so slightly powdered to a slight paleness, her rosy cheeks implying a sort of utterly false innocence. Cersei was trussed up in her most elaborate golden dress. There were more red ruffles in the silk than Jaime could count, and the folds drew Jaime’s eyes up to her buxom chest and deep, generous cleavage that showed a familiar, slightly tanned skin, a valley Jaime had fondly traversed in secret a good many time before. When his eyes finally dragged themselves away from the way her ample breasts seemed to spill out of her chest, Jaime saw her smirk victoriously like a cat with a mouse trapped between her paws. And by the Gods was Jaime more than willing to be that mouse. Jaime couldn’t get more than a word out before Cersei thrust herself at him, pressing her body flush against his own and crashing their lips together. Jaime groaned against her lips, grabbing her hips and pulling her inside the tent.

“Cersei,” Jaime rasped, his voice heavy with lust and with the great effort it nook to pull away from her as he jerked his had towards the open flap of his tent. Cersei ignored him, swallowing his protests as she unlaced his breeches. “Cersei, we mustn’t,” he whispered, groaning at the feel of Cersei’s long, delicate fingers wrapped around where his treasonous body betrayed him. She raised a single golden eyebrow, wordlessly challenging his reluctance as she stroked him to a full hardness. “We’ll be found out.”

“Only if you keep talking,” Cersei whispered, biting down on his lower lip with her perfect white teeth until Jaime tasted blood. Jaime hissed and grabbed her hips tightly, digging his fingertips into the soft fabric and the even softer flesh underneath. “How brave and valiant you are with sword in hand,” Cersei whispered into his ear, her words wrapping themselves around his thoughts like a lioness’s claws, “but when your sword is in _my_ hand…” she trailed off meaningfully, running perfectly manicured fingernails lightly down his length. The light touches and slow strokes teased him to an ache before her nails would run along his tender skin leaving lines that burned like fire. Jaime subconsciously started canting his hips, thrusting into her hand and relishing the feel of her soft palm around his cock.

Jaime made a strangled moan from the base of his throat as Cersei abruptly pulled her hand away, leaving him hot and flustered. “Please…” he whispered, his cock almost painfully hard. “Cersei… Gods, please…” Cersei kissed away his protestations again, cupping his face with her hands. Jaime ground himself against her, chasing that delicious friction, but Cersei stopped him with a finger on his forehead, pushing him back briefly. She turned around and pulled her skirts up to her hips, flashing her bare arse.

“You know what to do,” Cersei whispered, and Jaime’s eyes widened at the implication. This had been a barrier they had never crossed, a step that had always been too far. Cersei had guarded her maidenhead with the tenacity of a King’s Guard protecting his King, but _now…_ “Give me everything,” she whispered.

And by the Gods, he did.

Jaime grabbed Cersei by the hips and pushed her roughly to the chest, burying himself to the hilt inside her cunt. Jaime remembered too late her maidenhead, and he could feel what he assumed was blood sliding down his cock. Cersei said nothing of any pain she must have felt, though, and Jaime took that as invitation to thrust away, lost in the feel of her.

“I never want this to end,” Jaime groaned into Cersei’s ear, feeling her warm and soft and tight around him as he thrusted desperately. Her hands were braced on the wooden chest as he took her from behind. His own gripped her hips tightly, his fingers digging into the skin, her fancy dress was bunched up at the waist. Cersei moaned softly in response, a quiet whisper for him to chase. “Gods, I never want this to end,” he groaned, stifling a cry into her shoulder as he spilled himself inside her. A wiser man than he might have worried that his seed might have taken root inside her, but Cersei had never seemed overly concerned with the possibility before, so perhaps he was right to indulge in this incestuous carnality without a thought for the consequences.

“This never needs to end,” Cersei whispered, her voice low and seductive. Jaime hummed in response, relishing the languid contentment flowing through his veins like molten honey. “Come to the capital with me when I marry the Prince,” she whispered. “Join the King’s Guard and be with me _forever_.”

“But father…” Jaime protested noncommittally. His father’s voice had returned, as with that of his late Lady mother, judging him harshly for defiling his own sister. His Uncle Kevan’s stern voice berated him for abandoning his duty, his Uncle Tyg asked him if this is what made a true knight. Uncle Gery’s voice laughed mockingly and Tyrion’s mismatched eyes stared in disbelief, as if wondering why _he_ was the monster.

“Forget father,” Cersei said, pulling away. Jaime made a weak sound of protest as his soft cock left her, the soft breeze from the gaps in the tent stinging slightly where his seed dried on his skin. “Forget him and all of our uncles and aunts and Casterly Rock. Just us, you and me, that is all we need. Just us…”

Her voice lingered long after Cersei had left, swirling around his head, louder than all the rest.

 

When Jaime finally wormed himself into his armor, the sun had risen to its apex in the sky. Jaime watched the banners flap in the wind outside, trying his best to forget the morning. He had qualifying tilts to win, after all. Jaime tried to push his father’s cold disapproval and his sister’s plotting out of his head. Nothing good could come from dwelling on dreams, after all. For now, all he could be was Ser Jaime Lannister. That was all he was good for, it seemed.

_If only that was all I needed to be._

Jaime pushed aside the young Serrett boy whose name he cared not to learn who had helped lace up his armor, knowing he could don the rest. Ser Arthur Dayne, who even Jaime had the self-awareness to note had become the subject of a slight obsession of his, had never once needed a squire. He’d taken all care of his arms and armor himself, and Jaime knew not how he could lace his breastplate and gorget by himself. Nonetheless, Jaime felt an urge to prove his independence – he did not need some child to wipe his arse, after all – and despite his father’s insistence that he take the heir to Silverhill as a squire, Jaime glared at the boy until he fled in terror.

After all, the boy had stood right where Jaime had spilled into his sister, and the Gods knew that wasn’t what Jaime needed to think about, lest he put a hole in his armor around the groin.

The last part of Jaime’s armor was not armor at all, but rather a gold and red cape. It looked slightly like that white cloak Ser Arthur wore as part of his Kings Guard uniform. But this one was an eternal reminder of Jaime’s surname, that he was a Lannister above all else.

With that, Jaime strode out to find the other knights who would take the field that day.

A crowd of onlookers and the familiar ring of steel clashing against steel grabbed Jaime’s attention, and he wormed his way past the other knights to find the source of the commotion.

Even Jaime Lannister had to gasp in awe at what he saw.

Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stood in the center of the circle, twirling swords as they eyed each other. Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur had long since disposed of their white scaled armor and cloaks, and Prince Rhaegar was equally casually dressed, wearing a black tunic and breeches. They must have won their respective tilts, Jaime thought, for he could not imagine a scenario where they could have lost. The smiles on their faces alone seemed to indicate that they were enjoying themselves.

 _‘I hope I haven’t bruised Your Grace,’_ Ser Arthur Dayne laughed as his blunted sword glanced off of Prince Rhaegar’s leather bracer. If he was uncomfortable wielding a blade other than the Legendary sword that lay against a chair behind him, he did not show it, matching Prince Rhaegar and Ser Barristan swing for swing. _‘I would hate to bruise that pretty face.’_

 _‘Never,’_ the Prince shot back with a grin, spinning his sword. _‘Though I thank you for acknowledging my pretty face. Is that how you win the hearts of all the maidens, Ser Arthur?’_ he asked cheekily. Ser Arthur just chuckled and shook his head, muttering something under his breath.

 _‘Are you two here as lovers or as adversaries?’_ Ser Barristan the Bold asked sharply, though Jaime could see the fatherly affection under his words. Ser Arthur and Prince Rhaegar shared a fond look before turning their swords on the older knight and charging him together. _‘Oi!’_ Ser Barristan exclaimed as he came under attack.

“Have you ever seen such brilliance with the sword, Lannister?” a voice asked quietly as Ser Arthur blocked a cut from Ser Barristan. Jaime turned to see a man dressed in blue and red livery, with yellow suns and white crescents sewn all over. He looked like a fool. “Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall,” the fool Lord said by way of introduction.

“You’re from the Stormlands?” Jaime guessed, recalling the name. Sapphires from Tarth were almost as famous as gold from Casterly Rock. Prince Rhaegar turned on his dearest friend and cut at his chest. Ser Arthur parried the blow, and grappled Rhaegar, throwing him to the ground. The Prince was deft on his feet, rolling back to his feet and meeting Ser Arthur’s blade with his own. Selwyn Tarth whistled in admiration.

 “I am,” Tarth affirmed, his eyes not leaving where Dayne deftly parried the Prince of Dragonstone. “There were a few tourneys in Storm’s End that merited the attendance of the Prince of Dragonstone and a few knights of the King’s Guard,” he recalled dreamily. “By the Gods! A hundred songs must have been written of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen!” Jaime wanted to sneer at this grown man who swooned like a maiden at these famed knights, but then again… Jaime turned back to gawk as Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur cooperated against Ser Barristan, much to the older knight’s ire.

“But Ser Barristan took the first tourney at Storm’s End, though, and Ser Arthur the second,” Jaime said. He could probably list off the victors of all the tourneys of the past ten years from memory.

“I was fortunate enough to attend both tourneys,” Lord Tarth said. “Of course, the crowds cheered for both knights, but I have never seen anyone so adored by the people as Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

That Jaime could attest to, as the crowd of onlookers whooped and hollered for their Crown Prince. A flash of gold caught Jaime’s eye, and he squinted to see among the gaggle of maidens one Cersei Lannister. She didn’t even notice Jaime; she had eyes only for the Prince of Dragonstone. Jaime watched her flash the Prince her chest, trying to draw his attention, and he wondered if she was trying to get the man killed. For his part, Prince Rhaegar did not seem to be distracted at all, acknowledging her politely as one would a daughter of a Great House before turning his attention to Ser Arthur.  Jaime observed with a mix of chagrin and schadenfreude that Cersei’s most reliable techniques – the ones that always worked on _him_ – seemed impotent against Prince Rhaegar’s white knight.

It was almost enough to make Jaime wonder if the Prince favored the stem to the petal.

Before Jaime could continue that line of thought, he felt a tug at the elbow. A young page with a mop of brown hair and a green-yellow doublet nervously toed the ground under Jaime’s annoyed gaze.

“What is it?” Jaime snapped.

“H-H-His G-Grace req-quests your p-p-presence, Ser J-J-Jaime. Y-Your L-Lord f-f-father aw-w-waits,” the boy stammered before trying to bolt away. Jaime caught him by the collar of his doublet. He had the fear of the Gods in him, Jaime thought, and though Jaime wanted to believe he’d been that frightening, he recognized the signs of an encounter of the terrifying kind with his Lord father in the young page.

Jaime turned back to catch one more glance at the sparring knights.

“Tell my sweet sister to meet the King as well,” Jaime said sharply, releasing the boy. The young lad sprinted in a random direction before veering to the side, and Jaime sincerely hoped he’d not been so weak as a child. _Then again, perhaps the King will strike the same terror in me!_ Jaime thought with a sardonic twist of the lips.

He was not wrong in that.

Granted, Jaime had little idea of what to expect when he entered the King’s Chambers in Harrenhal. The last time he had seen King Aerys was over five years ago, in Lannisport. Presumably, a man of an age of the King would not have changed all that much – the Seven knew his own Lord father had barely aged a day in the interval – but Jaime himself had grown from a boy to a gull-fledged knight, so who could say, he had thought. Five years was a long time; perhaps the king too would be different.

The man Jaime had once known as His Grace King Aerys, the Second of His Name of the House Targaryen, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, had not been what Jaime would ever had thought to expect. Jaime had expected someone closer to Prince Rhaegar, for whom the past five years had been so richly rewarding. King Aerys had not been so charming and handsome like his son but rather cagey and unpleasant. He scowled where Rhaegar smiled, was spiteful and petty where Rhaegar was polite and generous. During his father’s fifteen-year tenure as Hand of the King, Jaime saw the King only rarely, and as poorly as the Tourney at Lannisport had ended for his Lord father’s grander ambitions, Jaime could not say he was overly disappointed to never see the King again. Even when Jaime returned to King’s Landing with Lord Sumner Crakehall and later rode with the knights of the King’s Guard against the Kingswood Brotherhood Jaime only saw Prince Rhaegar and Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Hand of the King. King Aerys had not seen fit to grace them with his presence.

So when Jaime entered the King’s chambers and presented himself, he had to stifle a horrified gasp, dropping to his knee and staring at the hard stone floor. In a sense, he had technically been correct in thinking that the King would likely not be the same man he’d remembered from his boyhood. No, the King before him was hardly even a man! King Aerys was frail and gaunt, his body scrawny and thin. Jaime could hardly believe that King Aerys could be Prince Rhaegar’s sire, for where Rhaegar’s face was dashing and handsome, his royal father had sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks. His fingernails were a sickly yellow, long like talons, and chipped in many places. Though King Aerys wore long sleeves, Jaime could see the hints of a network of scabs up and down his arms from the blades of the Iron Throne. His hair, silver like the Targaryens before him, was long and dirty, with tangles and knots that made Jaime instinctively want to run a hand through his own golden locks. What were most jarring, though, were the King’s signature Targaryen eyes. They were sunken and bloodshot, the famous purple irises of those with the blood of Old Valyria were almost black with malice and darted back and forth with suspicion. Something burned in their murky depths, something that made Jaime shiver to his core.

Even Lord Tywin Lannister, unshakeable in the face of steel and death, seemed almost taken aback by the dramatic change of his once closest friend.

A few men stood beside the King; Jaime recognized Lord Velaryon, whose blue eyes and pale blonde hair showed off the closely intertwined history of his noble House and the royal House Targaryen. His light blue doublet bore over his heart the pin of the Hand, a shiny silver hand pinned to the fabric. He recognized Jon Connington, the Lord of Griffin’s Roost, a small castle on a crag overlooking the Shipbreaker Bay in the highest point of the Stormlands. The third man Jaime did not recognize, though Jaime doubted he would ever forget him. The man stood next to King Aerys, plumb, bald, dressed in the sort of silk livery Cersei would wear, and covered in a light perfume. He whispered in the King’s ear, and Jaime noticed his Lord father eying the man carefully.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the King’s Guard, stood at the King’s other side, so still and unmoving that one might think him a statue. His squire, a boy with strange white hair parted by a black stripe, stood at attention next to him. Three other knights of the King’s Guard, Ser Jonothor Darry, Ser Oswell Whent, and Prince Lewyn Martell guarded the door, and Jaime wondered if he’d ever be recognized so easily. Their shining silver armor and their white cloaks reminded Jaime of Cersei’s words, of her plan for him to don the seventh cloak of that order. Jaime imagined himself wearing that cloak, standing in silver instead of gold in King’s Landing instead of Casterly Rock. He imagined staying with Cersei forever.

“Your Grace,” Jaime’s Lord father said, taking a knee in respect. Seeing his Lord father still kneeling was certainly a jarring sight. The Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West was not a man accustomed to seeing the world from his knees, but the King had not yet seen fit to let him stand. Jaime could only wonder how long the King would have them on their knees.

“Tywin!” the King rasped. “How long has it been?”

“Six years,” Lord Tywin said curtly, his voice deep and steady.

“Court has not been the same without you, Tywin,” Lord Velaryon said kindly.

“I can see a few changes before me,” Lord Tywin said, eyes darting from the pin at Lucerys’ lapel to the perfumed man. “A pity I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Lord Varys.” _Lord Varys_ , Jaime thought, recognizing the name. Whispers and rumors had made their way from King’s Landing all the way to Casterly Rock, stories of a eunuch brought to the King’s court as a spymaster. Jaime looked at Lord Varys again, looking away when Varys glanced at him. The man was unsettling.

“Did you hear about Steffon?” King Aerys asked suddenly, his gnarled face twisting in sadness; the change in his demeanor was jarring. One minute the King was laughing hysterically and the next he was on the verge of tears. “It was cruel of the Gods to take such a _loyal friend_ ,” King Aerys lamented, stressing _‘loyal’_ and _‘friend’_ and sneering at Jaime’s Lord father.

Lord Tywin frowned ever so slightly as he mentioned the late Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End, the man who had replaced him as Hand of the King when Lord Tywin resigned the position after Prince Viserys’ tourney at Lannisport. They had grown up as brothers, Jaime recalled: The Storm Lord, Steffon Baratheon; The Sea Drake, Lucerys Velaryon; then-Prince Aerys Targaryen; and Jaime’s own Lord father, a young squire from Casterly Rock named Tywin Lannister. Lord Steffon had sailed with his lady wife not a year ago to bring a Volenese noblewoman to marry Prince Rhaegar, Jaime’s Lord father had told him, but the ship sank in Shipbreaker’s Bay just a league from Storm’s End, killing everyone on board.

Jaime’s Lord father did not grace the invitation to the late Lord and Lady Baratheon’s funeral with a response, nor did he seem overly distraught at the death of the Volenese woman who was to be the Prince’s bride. Jaime wondered when his father’s heart had so hardened that he cared more for the vague chance to see his daughter marry into the royal family than he did his dear friend’s death. He knew the answer, of course. Lord Tywin Lannister had only ever two wives, Jaime’s Lady mother and the House of Lannister. When the former died eight years ago, the latter became Lord Tywin’s sole concern.

“I did, Your Grace,” Lord Tywin said curtly, ignoring the slight. “A tragedy.”

“The Seven Kingdoms will not be the same without Steffon,” Lord Lucerys agreed sadly. “I met Steffon’s sons at Storm’s End, did you know? Robert, Stannis, and Renly. The heir takes the most after Steffon, I guess. The lad’s certainly as big as Steffon was, but he lacks something. A certain honor Steffon had.”

“No son is his father,” Lord Connington said, breaking his silence before the King could say something rude. “I see you’ve brought your son too, Lord Lannister.”

Jaime shivered as the King turned to him, eyeing him in his golden armor up and down like a dragon before a kill.

“You must be Ser Jaime Lannister, then,” the King cackled, his laugh raspy and sharp to Jaime’s ears. “How old are you, boy?” he asked, and for a moment, Jaime was so terrified he forgot his own age.

“Six-and-ten, Your Grace,” Jaime stammered when he regained his wits. He shifted uncomfortably under the attention, looking from the King to his father kneeling beside him.

“Six-and-ten,” the King repeated, “and a knight already?” His voice was almost proud and incredulous, and Jaime couldn’t help but puff up a little at that. _This is the King! And he’s impressed with me!_

“Ser Arthur Dayne knighted you, did he not?” Lord Velaryon remembered. “For bravery against the Kingswood Brotherhood.”

Jaime nodded proudly. “He did, Lord Hand.”

“A great honor,” Velaryon smiled. “My nephew is the finest knight who ever lived.”

Jaime looked over to his father expecting to see some Lannister price, but instead, Lord Tywin looked suspicious. Jaime wondered if anything would make his father proud. Lord Varys whispered in the King’s ear, and the King spoke again. “You will be competing in the joust, will you not?”

“I do, Your Grace,” Jaime replied earnestly. “My tilts begin soon.”

“My son should return to the field to prepare,” Lord Tywin said immediately. Jaime frowned – his father had cared little for his jousting before.

“Nonsense, Tywin,” The King protested. “We still have time. Besides, I want to see the entire Lannister family.”

“You can’t,” Jaime muttered, louder than he had intended. The King gave him the same smile that Cersei had in the tent, and Lord Tywin turned to him in surprise. His flinty green eyes stared daggers at Jaime. “My brother, Tyrion,” Jaime clarified defiantly. “He’s eight years old, Your Grace.”

“The dwarf who killed Joanna,” the King mused. His words sparked something in Jaime, and he felt the need to speak for his little brother.

“Tyrion is a good boy,” Jaime insisted. “He’s smart and kind and reads a lot of books. It’s not his fault he’s a dwarf.”

There was a tense silence that followed Jaime’s outburst, and Lord Tywin looked angry enough to burst a vein. Lord Varys whispered softly into the King’s ear, and Jaime strained his ears trying to hear what was said.

“I am confident that Tyrion will be as much a credit to House Lannister as you, Ser Jaime,” Aerys said with a sick smile after a few moments. There was a dancing light in his dark purple eyes, and he danced his grotesque fingernails on the armrests of his pillowed chair.

Before Jaime could answer that, the door opened. “Prince Rhaegar Targaryen of Dragonstone,” Ser Jonothor Darry announced, as Prince Rhaegar, Ser Barristan, and Ser Arthur strolled in. They were dressed more casually than the other Lords or knights of the King’s Guard, but even still they looked proud and knightly. Jaime noticed that the Prince had escorted Cersei to the King’s chambers.

She had a wide grin on her face as she strode in on the Prince’s arm. They looked so dashing together, the Silver Prince and the Golden Lioness. Jaime felt his stomach curdle in on itself. Cersei flashed him a smirk, as if she could sense his jealousy.

“Your Grace,” the Prince said, bowing to acknowledge his Royal Sire. “Lord Lannister.” Prince Rhaegar shifted slightly to let Cersei go. Cersei lingered for just a moment before letting go, and Jaime noticed that the Prince had never strayed from chaste politeness. _Perhaps your seduction does not work like you think. Could he smell me on you, Sweet Sister? Did he not want my leavings?_

“Rhaegar,” the King returned curtly before his eyes lit up on Cersei’s form. He followed her deep neckline down to her breasts and lower, to her hips and legs. Jaime could see his Lord father clench his teeth almost imperceptibly, and he remembered the rumors of the King during his father’s wedding. The King had taken _liberties_ during the bedding, Jaime knew from rumors around King’s Landing and Casterly Rock, though no one dared elaborate within earshot of his father. “Cersei,” the King breathed. “You look so much like your mother.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Cersei fluttered demurely, giving him a curtsey. Jaime could see her stifle a recoil of disgust at the King’s lecherous gaze.

“And you are six-and-ten, girl?” King Aerys asked, peering at her. Cersei nodded, moving ever so slightly towards Prince Rhaegar. “Then you will be wed soon.” Cersei’s eyes darted to Prince Rhaegar, though the Silver Prince had eyes only for his father. “I envy the man with the honor of bedding the Light of the West! Second only to Joanna, I assume. Eh, Tywin?”

Everyone in the realm shifted uncomfortably at his words, and Jaime’s Lord father did not respond.

“Your brother was telling us of your youngest sibling… Tyrion, I believe?” the King asked Cersei. Jaime flinched slightly as Cersei glanced at him with their father’s harsh disapproval in their eyes, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Lord Varys.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I know not of whom you speak,” Cersei replied, as sweet as venom. Jaime’s heart sank,  as it was wont to do when his Lannister family disavowed his little brother.

“I am sure young Tyrion will find a way to distinguish himself in his own way like Jaime has, Your Grace” Lord Velaryon interjected uncomfortably, clearly noting how Lord Tywin had clenched his teeth with the strength to break steel. He cast a glance at the King, who listened to Lord Varys for a moment, his eyes lighting up with a queer malice.

“A tall task for a dwarf, for Jaime is the finest knight in Westeros!” Cersei insisted. “He could best any knight in the King’s Guard!”

“Any knight?” Aerys asked, with a smile. “Even the White Bull or Barristan the Bold? Prince Lewyn, the Grey Viper? Even Ser Arthur, the Sword of the Morning?”

“Even Ser Arthur,” Cersei insisted shamelessly. Lord Tywin squinted at her, and Jaime could see the edges of his lips curve downward ever-so-slightly as he tried to figure out what Cersei was up to. Ser Arthur merely smiled and raised a silver eyebrow, as if to say _we shall see._

“There is an absence in my King’s Guard, as I am sure you are aware,” the King began nefariously. “Only the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms deserve to have their names and deeds writ in the White Book. I can only hope that a knight of a similar caliber will join my White Cloaks, for Ser Jaime is destined for Casterly Rock, to Warden the West in my name,” King Aerys smiled crueller still, and Prince Rhaegar’s eyes widened, ever so slightly. He and the redheaded Lord of Griffin’s Roost shared a look. “Only a man of the highest dignity can be trusted to continue such a _distinguished_ line. Then again…” The King’s eyes raked over Jaime cruelly. “Ser Jaime has assured me of his younger brother’s worthiness, so mayhaps I need not worry for the future of House Lannister.”

“Your Grace…” Prince Rhaegar objected, realizing what his Royal Sire meant to do.

“Silence!” the King spat at his heir, his lips twisted into a sneer. He gestured with one gnarled hand and stoic Ser Jonothor walked over, the barest trace of misgivings on his face. In the Demon of Darry’s hands lay a folded white cloak. “I congratulate you, Sers, my Lords,” the King cackled. “Now you may bear witness to the induction of Ser Jaime Lannister into my King’s Guard!”

Lord Tywin seemed barely unable to keep from strangling the King with his bare hands, but all Jaime could do was gape. _The King’s Guard.._. Ser Gerold Hightower unfolded the white cloak and held the clasps with his hands, spreading it wide.

“Do you swear to hold not lands, claim no titles, take no wife, and father no sons?” Ser Gerold asked him. Jaime could barely hear the word, still in shock. “Do you pledge your life to defend the King? To fight for his life and honor, and die for him if need be?”

Jaime saw his lord father purpling in rage, his eyes hard enough to cut steel. He saw Jon Connington shake his head and whisper into Prince Rhaegar’s ear. He saw Ser Arthur Dayne’s smile strain, and Lucerys Velaryon look around worriedly, avoiding Lord Tywin’s eyes. He saw the other knights of the King’s Guard shift uncomfortably, Ser Oswell and Ser Jonothor sharing a look. He saw the eunuch whisper in King Aerys’ ear and the King grin wickedly.

Then he saw Cersei smile, a secret smile just for him, and he was speaking before he knew it. “I pledge my life to the King.”

“Then rise, Ser Jaime Lannister, knight of the King’s Guard!” Ser Gerold declared, releasing Jaime’s Lannister cloak and clasping the white cloak of the King’s Guard to his shoulders. Jaime rose in a daze as everyone applauded, the King the loudest of them all.

He noticed that King Aerys had eyes only for his father, who got to his feet stormed out of the room. That was to be expected, Jaime thought numbly, but his heart sank in disappointment as Prince Rhaegar and Cersei followed him, with Ser Arthur Dayne and Lord Jon Connington behind them. The Prince of Dragonstone gave Jaime a weak smile as he left, and Ser Arthur shook his head slightly, refusing to meet Jaime’s desperate eyes as he strode from the room.

 “Congratulations, Jaime,” Lord Velaryon said carefully, when they had left. “You are a worthy addition to the White Book.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Jaime said shakily, his eyes darting to the door. _What have I done.._. “I will bring the King honor, in the lists and in the battlefield.”

“You will have to forfeit the joust, Ser Jaime,” the King cackled, “No, you will ride for King’s Landing at once and protect my wife and son!”

Jaime’s eyes widened. _What?_ “F-Forfeit the joust?” Jaime stuttered.

Ser Gerold nodded grimly. “Take the best horse and ride hard for the King’s Road.” His eyes were sympathetic but firm. _Welcome to the King’s Guard,_ they seemed to say. _You are not a boy anymore._

“I-I will, Your Grace,” Jaime said quietly, remembering his goldenwood lances. _Uncle Tyg would need those_ , he thought glumly. _Oh, what have I done?_

Jaime walked out one of the castle doors in a daze, the afternoon sun blinding him as he made his way back to his tent. All around, men and women cheered for the new knight of the King’s Guard.

“That white cloak suits you, Ser Jaime,” Ser Robb Hill remarked, a grin on his lips. Lord Rupert Brax clapped loudy with Lords Crakehall, Farman, Lefford, and Westerling. Jaime felt a dozes slaps on the shoulder and the back and the congratulations washed over him, but all he could think of was the King’s cruel smile as he dismissed Jaime from Harrenhal, of Lord Tywin’s fury. _Is that what I am,_ he wondered. _A way to insult my father?_

“Knight of the King’s Guard, eh,” Ser Rolland Crakehall whistled gloatingly. “I suppose I need not bow to you anymore, Jaime!” he laughed, slapping Jaime on the back. Jaime balled his fists, holding back the urge to punch him in the teeth.

Jaime’s eyes darted around until they landed on a familiar head of golden hair. “Cersei,” he hissed, grabbing her elbow.

Cersei gave him an aggrieved look, glaring as she wrenched her arm free. “What do you want, Jaime?”

“The King is sending me back to King’s Landing!” Jaime exclaimed, pulling her into his Lannister tent.

“What of it?” she brushed him off. “Father and I spoke with the Prince, did you know?” Her eyes glimmered, green and covetous.

“Others take the Prince, the King is separating us, Cersei!” Jaime insisted.

“Don’t be so dramatic. We shall see each other when I become Princess. That is what the Prince said.”

Jaime’s eyes widened at that. “He said that?!” His heart sank, remembering Cersei with Prince Rhaegar, how beautiful they looked.

“He implied it,” Cersei said dismissively. “He speaks with Father now.”

“But…” Jaime trailed off. _But…_

“Are you not bound for King’s Landing, dear brother?” Cersei asked, pecking his lips. “I shall see you soon, and you shall call me _Your Grace._ Good-bye for now.”

Cersei left him, as everyone else had, and Jaime was all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lannister family dysfunction is fun to write.
> 
> Apologies if the ending was a little rushed, but jeez this was hard to write. I meant to have this done like a month ago. Man, Harranhal is going so much slower than I wanted. 
> 
> Before you ask, yes Jaime fanboying over Arthur Dayne was totally self-indulgent, and I refuse to apologize.
> 
> I've edited some of the previous chapters - nothing major, just a few elements that will be important later on. I have a hard time leaving something once I've submitted it. Sorry!
> 
> I'm going for another reasonable POV next, before I start jumping the shark with characters. 
> 
> I'm thinking of adding an appendix, as every chapter seems to add a bunch of characters lol. I'd rather not, but I'm not nearly good enough a writer to presume that a reader can keep up with my ramblings, so...let me know if you think the story needs it!
> 
> Again, check out the works of dhazellouise if you want to see what a young Jaime might look like. Seriously.
> 
> Next time: Arthur, Rhaegar, and Jon deal with a furious Lion, and Arthur meets strange girl.

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments! Leave me lots!!!!!


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